


Set in Stone

by SilentAuror



Series: The Ravine Valley series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past loss of child, Romance, Therapy, Wedding!, bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: Sherlock and John are back from Ravine Valley and planning their wedding. However, as they move past the trial of the human traffickers, Sherlock can't help but wonder if he's imagining that John is becoming a little distant. Surely he isn't getting cold feet about the wedding...





	Set in Stone

**Set in Stone**

 

Downstairs, the door opens and closes with gusto, then there are footsteps running up the stairs. Sherlock goes on slicing celery but isn’t entirely able to keep from smiling to himself. John’s step on the stairs is a changed thing since the day he first moved in. Barely able to negotiate the seventeen steps then, his cane making an awkward third leg, now John bounds up the steps with endless energy. 

He bursts into the kitchen, face flushed. “I’m back,” he announces, and Sherlock turns around to smile at him. 

“I heard you on the stairs,” he says. “What’s the hurry?” 

“I missed you,” John says with conviction, dropping his bags on the table as he makes his way across the kitchen. He backs Sherlock into the counter and kisses him soundly, and at length.

Sherlock has no objection to this whatsoever. He drops his knife on the counter behind him and puts both arms around John’s shoulders as he kisses back. It’s a deep, wet kiss involving a lot of tongue and after a moment or two, John reaches down to cup at Sherlock’s genitals, which respond as though directly wired to his hand, stirring immediately in appreciative awakening. Sherlock makes a sound of both surprise and decided interest into the kiss and John makes one back of confirmation, his voice sounding both amused and aroused. Sherlock can’t even pretend that he doesn’t love it when John gets like this, and arches unabashedly into his touch. John unzips him and slips his hand into Sherlock’s trousers, not drawing out his growing erection, but rubbing it directly inside his underwear until it can’t be contained there any longer. Sherlock kisses hungrily, pushing into John’s hand and stroking over his back and arse. He’s about to reach for John in turn when John surprises him by lifting him directly onto the counter. Sherlock shoves the celery out of the way and then groans appreciatively as John bends over and buries his head between Sherlock’s legs, sucking half of him down on the first go, his hands rubbing Sherlock’s still-clad thighs as his sandy-silver head bobs in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock moans again. “John… you didn’t – ahh – you didn’t have to – but you’re – ohhh – ”

John makes a vaguely affirmative sound in response but doesn’t pause in his ministrations, putting his tongue and lips to the best possible use. He sucks and licks, turning his head to run his mouth along the length of Sherlock’s shaft, then licking at his balls, which makes Sherlock moan and grasp at John’s soft hair as he feels himself seep out a spot of liquid. John notices this, of course, and his mouth is on it half a second later, tongue massaging the underside of Sherlock’s cock as he swallows down the liquid arousal welling from the head of Sherlock’s penis. He’s said repeatedly since the first time that he loves going down on Sherlock and it shows.

Sherlock reaches a foot around to rub at the cleft of John’s arse and John moans, the sound reverberating through Sherlock’s flesh, and then one of his hands disappears, unable to wait as he unzips his jeans and starts touching himself in tandem with Sherlock. The very thought doubles Sherlock’s arousal and he feels himself twitch and swell impossibly further in John’s mouth, stretching John’s lips around him. Sherlock throws his head back and pants, open-mouthed, restraining himself from holding John’s head down into his lap. John gets it, though, and goes even faster, his mouth like a hot, wet, velvet channel around Sherlock’s aching flesh. He’s leaking still more, his testicles twitching, and the pleasure is building, preparing to spike. “John – ” he gasps out and John pulls back so that only the head of Sherlock’s in his in mouth and he sucks hard, his tongue rubbing Sherlock’s sensitive head, and that does it – his hips leave the counter as he thrusts up hard into the recesses of John’s throat, pleasure swamping his nervous system and shooting out of him in hot bursts. He can hear the noises John is making, higher and needy, swallowing and still sucking, urging another gush or two out of Sherlock, then suddenly John releases his penis and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s thigh, hand and arm moving rapidly, and then his breath catches and there’s a hot splatter of liquid against the cupboards, then another, and then John is panting against Sherlock’s still-twitching penis, his arms circling Sherlock’s hips and waist loosely. 

Sherlock is still breathing hard, himself. “Goodness,” he gets out, panting and dazed. “What brought that on?” 

John chuckles into his hip, then straightens up to smile dreamily into Sherlock’s face, cupping it with both hands, and Sherlock feels the cold platinum of the ring he gave John on his cheek. “I told you,” John says simply, still smiling. “I missed you.” 

Sherlock puts a hand on the back of John’s head and seals their mouths together again, stooping a little to make up for the height difference with him on the counter, and it goes on for several long, really good minutes. It’s insane, he thinks, happiness seeping up like a groundswell within him. The sensation of being enormously, unstoppably, tremendously in love just does not seem to wear off or grow old. It hasn’t become boring, not that he expects it to, but it seems to happen to everyone else. It’s been nearly three months already and it just keeps on growing. When the kiss ebbs off naturally, he pulls back and says, “You were only gone for an hour or two.” 

John raises his eyebrows, smiling a little. “Are you really expecting me to believe that you don’t know the precise time, down to the minute?” 

Sherlock smirks a little. “All right, you were gone ninety-three minutes.” 

“And?” John prompts, his voice turning sultry as he nudges at Sherlock’s nose with his. 

“And I missed you horribly for every second of it,” Sherlock says, not even trying to prevaricate, and John grins in triumph. 

“So, justified, then,” he says, meaning the spontaneous blow job, and Sherlock is still nodding when John claims his mouth again. 

They don’t separate despite the tapping of heels on the stairs, though they do hastily scramble to zip themselves away again. Nonetheless, they’re still kissing when Mrs Hudson walks in. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she says mildly. “Snogging again, is it? Don’t you two have a wedding to plan? Cases to work on?” 

John pulls back, smiling knowingly into Sherlock’s eyes. “No cases at the moment, actually,” he says, releasing Sherlock and turning away to retrieve his shopping from the table where he dropped it. “We do have a dinner party, however.” 

“That’s nice,” Mrs Hudson approves. “Where’s that?” 

Sherlock gets himself off the counter and collects his scattered celery slices. “With our new friends from Ravine Valley,” he says. “Justin and Thom are hosting tonight.” 

“Ah! Lovely,” Mrs Hudson says. She peers into one of John’s bags and takes out two packages of cheese and a container of coffee cream and makes for the fridge. “That’s nice, that you’re keeping up with them.” 

“Well, it was our suggestion, so we sort of have to,” John tells her. He puts his hand on the bag of grapes she’s just picked up. “I’ll take those, actually. We’re supposed to be bringing some appetizers. Fruit and cheese and crudités.” 

“You’ll be wanting that cheese back, then.” Mrs Hudson retrieves it from the fridge. “I just came up to let you know that I’m going to Cornwall for the weekend. But I should be back in time for the trial. It starts on Tuesday, doesn’t it?” 

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at her. “Yes, it does. Are you coming to see it?” 

“Of course!” Mrs Hudson is reproving. “I wouldn’t miss _that_ for the world! After all, it could have been one of you two, couldn’t it? And all these men you’ve saved! This is an important one and I’d like to be there when they send this Brennan character and his little friend away. Nasty characters, both of them! We’re well shot of men like that!” 

John comes over to the sink and wets a flannel, surreptitiously cleaning away his mess on the cupboard doors before Mrs Hudson can be distracted by it. “I quite agree,” he says. “Our whole group plus some of the retreat centre staff are coming to see it, too. That’s why we wanted to wait until after the trial for the engagement party.” 

“Right you are.” Mrs Hudson nods sagely. “Is that nice Todd coming down again?” 

“I would assume that he’ll need to testify,” Sherlock tells her. “After all, Lucas was his spouse until about three weeks ago.” 

Mrs Hudson shakes her head. “Well, sometimes you just don’t know who it is you’ve married until after the fact, isn’t that right?” She directs this last to John, who scowls and rinses off the flannel. 

“Let’s not talk about that,” he says. “I was in such a good mood.” 

“Of course,” Mrs Hudson says, and abandons the subject. “Well. I’ll just be off, then. I’m going out for sushi with Mrs Turner. She’s never tried it before. Fancy that! Seventy-three years old and she’s never tried sushi!” She giggles delightedly and makes for the door. 

“I wouldn’t suggest you recommend sea urchin just yet,” Sherlock says dryly, and this makes her laugh all the harder, waving him off as she descends the stairs. 

“Still think her laugh sounds like an owl being murdered?” John asks under his breath, reaching for the bag of grapes. 

“More than ever.” 

John snickers and brings the bag over to the sink, pulling out a colander and washing the grapes thoroughly. He pulls off a small stem with four or five grapes and holds them to Sherlock’s lips. “Try these,” he says. “There were samples at the shop and the ones I tried were really sweet.”

Sherlock stops slicing celery and lets John feed him the grapes. They’re as sweet as promised, the skins crisp and bursting into juice on his tongue. “Mmm,” he says, and leans over to kiss John, his lips wet with water from the fruit. 

John kisses back, the water still running over his hands. “I can taste them in your mouth,” he says after, smiling, his eyes half-lidded. He shuts off the water. “I bought strawberries, too, and fresh figs. Is that enough to go with the cheese, do you think?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Sherlock assures him. “What kind of cheese did you get?” 

“A camembert, a smoked gouda, and we already had that havarti that we hadn’t eaten yet,” John says. “I thought, three kinds of cheese, three kinds of fruit?” 

“Perfect,” Sherlock tells him, and leans in to kiss him again. 

John kisses back, an arm curving warmly around Sherlock, then pulls back and says, “I’d better get to this or else we’ll never get to dinner.” 

Sherlock agrees with reluctance and they separate and go back to their own tasks, John preparing the fruit and cheese plate at the table while Sherlock chops carrots, cauliflower, small, white mushrooms, and long ribbons of coloured peppers to go with the celery. He fits a container of store-bought dip in the centre and wraps the entire tray in plastic wrap. “That’s that done,” he says. “What are you wearing? I’m going to put on a proper shirt.” He’s already wearing black wool trousers, but only has a t-shirt on over top. He’s stopped wearing dressing gowns as often, as John has mentioned casually that it makes his arse more difficult to access. 

John glances down at himself. “I’ll put something a little nicer on. Trousers and a decent shirt or something.” 

Sherlock nods. “I’m going to change, then.” 

John smiles. “I’ll be right there.” 

Sherlock stops behind him on his way out of the kitchen and puts his hands on John’s waist, bending to kiss the side of his neck. “Okay.” He lets himself breathe in the scent of John’s skin for a moment, John leaning into him, then detaches himself and goes to the bedroom to choose a shirt. 

He’s just buttoning it when John comes in, a crisply-tailored white one that John has commented on before. John makes an approving sound. “You look gorgeous in that,” he says. “I love the way your back looks in it. Maybe I’ll go all black, just for contrast.” 

“Nice,” Sherlock approves, doing up his cuffs and then tucking the shirt in. “You look great in black.” 

John smiles at him. “I’ll wear that cashmere jumper you gave me. The one I wore the day of our session with Margaret.” 

Sherlock smiles back. “Do you know, I wondered on the day if you wearing meant that our day would go well. I had no idea what to expect, but I never thought that our session would lead to you kissing me after.” 

John comes over to get his jumper out of the dresser drawer, but stops to hug Sherlock from behind first. “How could it have done otherwise?” he asks. “Once we finally understood each other, there was nothing that could have stopped it from happening at last, Sherlock. And here we are.” 

Sherlock puts his hands over John’s arms where they’re circling him, touching the ring that John’s already wearing on his right hand in a renewed sense of wonder. “Here we are,” he echoes. Then, “Are you _actually_ going to marry me?” 

John’s laugh is loud and infectious. “How many more times are you going to ask me that, you daft twit?” he asks, his face full of affection. “Yes. Of course I am. Nothing can stop that, either!” He stretches up to press a kiss into Sherlock’s jawline, then releases him in favour of searching out his jumper.

He pulls off his t-shirt and slips into the soft, black garment and Sherlock watches him with a sense of awe that refuses to fade. He believes that it isn’t going anywhere, but it still feels like a miracle. 

*** 

They get into a taxi fifteen minutes later and take a relatively short ride to Camden, to Justin and Thom’s flat. Carrying their trays of fruit and vegetables, they get carefully out, Sherlock also balancing a bottle of wine in a bag on his arm, and climb up the steps. John pushes the button for the bell and they wait for only a few seconds before footsteps approach. 

Thom opens the door and beams at them. “Hi, you two! Come on in! Can I take any of that?” 

“Just this,” Sherlock says, offering the wine bag and Thom slips it off his arm. “Otherwise, just point us to where you want this.” 

“Kitchen. Follow me,” Thom says, leading the way. 

They find themselves in a sunny open kitchen with an island counter separating it from the dining room, the sitting room just beyond. Todd is sitting on one of the barstools on the kitchen side of the island, Kyle perched just opposite, both of them drinking what appear to be gin and tonics. “Todd,” Sherlock says in surprise. “Hello! Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” He sets his tray of crudités down on the table in the centre of the kitchen where Thom is pointing, and John follows suit with his plate of fruit and cheese, echoing his greeting. 

Todd gets up to come over and shake their hands. “Always a pleasure,” he says, though Sherlock notes the lines around his eyes and thinks that he looks tired. 

“Down for the trial?” he asks, though only to be polite; it’s perfectly obvious, and Todd nods. 

“I was called to testify, naturally enough. Jeremy is, too, and he invited us to come to this. When I called Justin and Thom to make sure it was all right, they invited us to stay with them until the trial is finished.” 

Sherlock understands. “I see,” he says.

“It’s great that you’ve got a place to stay,” John adds. “You could have asked us, too! But you’ll be all set here, I should think.” He nods at Kyle. “So, is this finally officially a thing, then? You two?” 

They exchange looks and Kyle smiles at Todd. “He kept insisting on waiting until it didn’t seem as scandalously quick after his split from Lucas. I, of course, pointed out that the real split had already happened years ago, but you know how it is.” 

“I’m glad,” John says firmly, and Sherlock nods. “When we came up a couple of weeks after the arrest, we could already see it starting.”

“Could you?” Todd asks, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Interesting.” 

“Tell them how much longer you managed to hold out after that,” Justin says, straightening up from where he was inspecting something delicious-smelling in the oven and coming over to say hello to everyone. He hugs Sherlock and John at the same time, to their mutual amusement. “Drink?” he asks. 

Sherlock nods at Todd’s glass. “Going by the lime slice and the open bottle of gin on the table, I’ll assume that’s a gin and tonic and have the same, place.” 

“Me too,” John says, then turns his attention back to Todd and Kyle, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “Well?” he asks. “Out with it, then.” 

Todd looks across the island at Kyle and they exchange a rather private smile. Kyle reaches over and takes his hand. “The following weekend,” Todd admits. “The day after Jeremy got back.” 

“It’s fantastic, so stop apologising for it,” Thom orders. “You need a refill, Kyle. Give me your glass.” 

The bell rings again. “I’ll get that,” John offers, and goes to the door when Justin waves him toward it. He comes back with Jeremy, Scott, Brad, and Doug. “I found a whole bunch of them,” John announces. Everyone starts saying hello and John turns to Sherlock and lowers his voice subtly. “It’s getting a little crowded in here,” he says. “Do you want to go and take off our coats, then maybe move into the dining room or sitting room?” 

Sherlock feels a touch of relief; the kitchen has just become rather overwhelmingly full, and he nods, appreciating John’s perception. John takes him by the hand and they carry their drinks over to the dining room table, then take off their coats and find hooks for them in the corridor. They sit down at the table and Kyle and Todd come over and join them. 

It’s a thoroughly pleasant evening, Sherlock reflects as it progresses. He can honestly say that he’s never before had so many friends, never known so many people he genuinely enjoys spending time with. He finds himself more interested than he ever might have expected to be about the lives of these other men. It does help, he thinks, withdrawing from the conversation a little during dinner, to know other couples and to know that they’re not as perfect as the surface might reflect. He notes, cutting his roast, that Jeremy and Scott have become Scott and Jeremy. Jeremy defers to Scott in ways that he didn’t before, at least not based on the two days he observed them at Ravine Valley. Jeremy’s abduction has changed them both individually, and as a couple, permanently. He observes that Kyle obviously worships Todd, and Todd, though seemingly very private about it, seems to absorb it with something akin to gratitude, keeping his return touches at least partially hidden – though not, Sherlock thinks, out of any related shame over it, but out of his own treatment of the importance of said touches. He notices his own relationship, miracle that it still insists on feeling like, notices the way he and John touch each other – obviously, pointedly, wanting people to see it, notice their small physical claims on one another, yet continuing it without change in private, too. 

Later, after they’ve eaten the banoffee pie Doug brought, washing it down with cups of very good espresso, Sherlock finds himself without John and looks around for him, wondering how he managed to lose him in the crowd. He spots him in the sitting room, sitting kitty-corner to Jeremy on the sofas, and pauses to watch them for a moment. They both look very sober, Jeremy with his legs crossed at the knee, speaking more to his hands than to John. John is listening intently, his brow knit a little, and Sherlock sets down his demitasse and goes to join them, arranging himself next to John with care, not interrupting the conversation. John takes his hand and leans into him a little, his eyes still on Jeremy, listening, and the gesture warms Sherlock. 

“It’s just… there are times when I feel like it will never really be okay,” Jeremy is saying. “Like, that no matter what he says, it’s not really something you can forgive.” 

John frowns intelligently. “But if he’s said he’s forgiven it, can’t you just let it go and take him at his word?” 

Jeremy shakes his head. “It’s almost not even about him. It’s about me. I can’t forgive myself. It’s almost like the more understanding and forgiving he is, the worse I feel, because I don’t deserve for him to be so understanding. And while I know it’s me holding us back, until I can get past this, we as a couple can’t move forward.” 

Sherlock glances surreptitiously over toward the kitchen end of the flat and sees that Todd is deeply immersed in conversation with Brad, discussing the trial, based on the scraps of conversation he can hear. He wonders what Todd would think of this line of thinking. 

John, meanwhile, is arguing gently. “If it’s not an issue for him anymore, then why keep raking yourself over the coals? Isn’t it enough that he’s willing to drop it and move forward? I mean, you could have been killed out there. He’s probably just grateful that he got you back.” 

Jeremy nods, then looks up at John, his gaze flicking quickly to Sherlock. “Yeah, I get what you’re saying. I just mean that maybe that’s not enough. Maybe he shouldn’t forgive it. Maybe he deserves better than me – not that I want him to leave me! I’m – completely grateful that he’s being like this about it all. I know it doesn’t make sense, but for my own sense of integrity, I wish I could go back and change my own behaviour.” 

“No can do that,” Sherlock says, carefully not looking at John. “We all make mistakes.” 

“Some bigger than others,” John adds, with a careful sideways look at Sherlock. 

Jeremy’s eyebrows rise. “Says the guy who married someone else,” he comments. “I guess you would know.” He looks at them both then, seeing their expressions, and hastily adds, “Come on, that was a joke! I know you two weren’t together when that happened!” 

“No,” John says, his smile a bit tight. “We weren’t.” 

Jeremy’s eyes scan Sherlock’s face, then he says, “I’d be willing to bet that Sherlock already loved you then, though.” 

Sherlock tightens his fingers in John’s. “It’s ancient history,” he says firmly. “You should let yours go, too.” 

“Scott wants me to,” Jeremy says, his face troubled. “I _am_ trying. It’s just not easy.” 

Scott appears then and drops down onto the sofa on Jeremy’s other side. “Did I hear my name?” he asks lightly, leaning over to kiss Jeremy on the cheek, simultaneously putting an arm around his shoulders. 

Jeremy turns his face toward Scott and kisses him back on the lips, firmly, and Scott responds to it, kissing back for a long second. “Let’s go home,” Jeremy says, lowering his voice. “It’s not too early, is it?” 

Scott looks into his eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t have to be,” he says easily. “You okay? What’s going on?” 

“I need you,” Jeremy tells him, his voice low and intimate, but also a bit raw, a bit uncertain, and Sherlock marvels a little at the loss of veneer that he used to have. 

Scott studies him, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “We can go, then.” He turns a bit apologetically to Sherlock and John. “Sorry to dash,” he says, and Jeremy echoes it as they get to their feet. 

“We’ll see you on Tuesday, for the trial,” he says. He looks at John. “Good talk. Thanks.” 

“Do try to take it onboard,” John says lightly. “See you.” 

Sherlock nods at them. He turns to John after they’ve gone to make their goodbyes to the others, but is interrupted by Andrew coming over to proffer a box of chocolates. He sits down and joins them, asking about their last case, which he read about on John’s blog. It was a short, relatively easy one, but received a lot of media attention. The conversation moves on before Sherlock can say anything more to John about Mary, about – he doesn’t know exactly what, but something meant to reassure and confirm, along those lines. The chance doesn’t come until they’re home, and then John doesn’t seem to want to talk. He starts kissing Sherlock in the bathroom, pressing him up against the bathroom in his pyjama pants. He didn’t even bother with a t-shirt and neither did John. They’ve brushed their teeth and Sherlock had been thinking about showering again, but if this is happening, he’d rather not interrupt it. Not when they’re standing their in the bathroom, arms tight around each other’s back, bodies hardening as they kiss, their mouths open, tongue sliding together in the intimate dance that Sherlock loves so much, arousal coursing through his veins and sparking in his nervous system. They move into the bedroom without separating, John reaching out a hand to slap at the light switch. They strip off their pyjama pants, leading Sherlock to wonder why they bothered with them in the first place, and get into bed together. John is leaning over him, a hand stroking over Sherlock’s chest and side and arse as their legs twine together, penises pushing up against each other’s. Their mouths are biting at each other’s, urgent and hungry. It isn’t always like this, not this fast, Sherlock thinks blurrily, trying to touch as much of John as he possibly can at once. But sometimes this mood comes over them, especially after they’ve been out in public with other people. It’s as though the very introduction of people outside their insular circle of two causes them to need to reaffirm their own connection. John’s mouth is on his neck now, sucking at the place he knows will make Sherlock exhale heavily and arch up all the more against him, legs rubbing against John’s in an ever-deepening need to touch him as much as he can. The heat of John’s mouth travels lower, moving down his chest to massage Sherlock’s nipples with his tongue and Sherlock’s erection gives a throb of pleasure at this. His hands are on John’s arse, gripping and rubbing and he can feel how hard John is, his own penis stiff and heavy with lust and need combined. 

John’s mouth is on his throat again, thrusting a little against Sherlock, but it’s unhurried. It’s more revelling in every single place they’re touching rather than actively working toward orgasm. That will come. John moves lower, his mouth sliding hotly over the head of Sherlock’s penis and Sherlock hears his own gasp of breath, followed by a heartfelt moan of appreciation. John is extremely good with his mouth and Sherlock loves this particular act almost above any other that they’ve done – though he would be hard-pressed to choose a favourite. John sucks hard, his tongue and lips and hands all working, and Sherlock feels a spot of liquid well up onto John’s tongue in response. His fingers are in John’s hair and he can feel John’s erection against his calf like a rod, wetness mingling with his sparse leg hair from where it’s rubbing against his skin. He’s drowning in pleasure and means to stop John to reciprocate, but before he can, John lifts his head to look at him. He licks his lips. “Do you want to top tonight?” he asks, taking Sherlock’s hand and weaving their fingers together in their usual way. He punctuates the question with another long lick at Sherlock’s penis. 

Sherlock has to swallow before he can respond. “It doesn’t really matter to me… what do you want?” 

“I want to do what you want,” John says determinedly, with another lick. He waits for Sherlock’s response, but starts licking at his testicles at the same time. 

Sherlock is in heaven, his chest heaving with breath. “You top, then,” he manages, his inhalation unsteady, and John makes a contented sound that reverberates through his genitalia and makes his fingers clench in John’s hair. 

John makes a sound of acknowledgement. His hands are on Sherlock, turning him over, Sherlock trying to keep his long legs from kicking him, and then without warning, John’s face is right there, pushed into the cleft of his arse, and he starts licking at Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock’s breath comes out in a choked gasp as he lowers his forehead to his forearms, face down with his arse in the air as John’s tongue pushes into him. He can’t help the sounds he’s making now; they’ve known since the first time John did this that he’s extremely susceptible to being rimmed and tonight it somehow feels even better than usual. He’s pushing back against John’s face, unable to stop himself from it, his penis leaving wet smears against his lower abdomen. John grasps it and starts to rub and Sherlock’s moans grow deeper throatier still, unable to move now, pinioned between the pleasure of John’s fist rubbing his erection and John’s tongue moving rhythmically into him. It feels so good he can barely breathe, and yet he still wants more, needs the sensation of John entering him, filling him. 

“Please,” he gets out, the word strained, and John understands without needing to ask. 

He flicks open the cap of their current bottle of lubricant and nibbles at the curves of Sherlock’s arse as he rubs the product over himself. He takes a little more and caresses Sherlock’s erection with it, which makes him shiver, his penis spasming in John’s palm. John positions himself behind Sherlock and begins rubbing himself against Sherlock’s testicles. It feels so good that Sherlock’s breath catches again, hardly able to respond except to push himself up onto his arms and back against John. “Now?” John asks, his voice low and breathy, a sure sign that he’s feeling desperate for it but won’t say – he never pushes Sherlock at any time or in any way. 

Sherlock makes a non-verbal sound of desperate need and John shifts back and sinks into him in one long, smooth push, and they both groan. Sherlock can feel how hard John is, his perfect penis like marble within him. John gives it half a moment, then begins to move. The very slight burn of the stretch streaks the edge of pleasure with fire, and he loves it. He drops his head and savours it, his mouth opens, feeling the pleasure swirl through his body in technicolour. They’re breathing in tandem, accelerating jointly, John pumping steadily into him. It’s good – it’s so good, and he could just focus on the pleasure alone, but suddenly he wants to see John’s face. “Wait,” he pants. “I – want to – see you – ”

John stops, albeit with difficulty. He agrees without argument, breathing hard as Sherlock scrambles onto his back, and smiles down at him. “Like this?” he confirms, though Sherlock is already pulling his legs up, holding himself open for John. 

“Yes! Please – ” He doesn’t need to say anything else; John is sinking into him again, Sherlock’s legs crossing over his back, and it’s even better now. It’s charged, their eye contact unbroken, their mouths open, panting jointly. Sherlock hooks his left foot around the curve of John’s flexing arse as he thrusts steadily into him and rubs, hands pressing into John’s back, craving ever more contact. He can feel John’s penis swelling within him, obviously very close to the point of orgasm, and suddenly he wants to feel that. John always waits for him to come first when they do it this way, but this time Sherlock wants to feel it happen within him. “Are you – do you want to come?” he asks breathily, and the very question makes John’s forehead contract almost as though in pain. 

“God, yes!” He doesn’t hold back. “But I can wait if you’re almost – ”

“Don’t wait!” Sherlock says, panting, hands squeezing wherever they’re touching. “I want to feel it – come in me, J – ”

John must be right on the edge, because he doesn’t even try to argue it. His movements become frenzied, slapping into Sherlock hard, his lower teeth showing, his eyes still locked to Sherlock’s, and then they squeeze shut and Sherlock feels it, the spasm that shudders through John’s frame and then the flood of his release within him as John cries out. His hips pound forward again, releasing another gush of warmth, and Sherlock’s toes curl, feeling it. 

He can’t speak – the need is choking his words in his throat, his entire body suspended on the brink of supernova. John is still for only a second, then pulls out and slips back down Sherlock’s body, replacing his penis with three fingers and swallowing down Sherlock’s painfully hard erection in one go. Sherlock shouts out, John’s fingers pumping within him as he sucks and _sucks_ , and then it breaks over him like a waterfall, his entire body gripped in blinding light of his orgasm, spurting hotly down John’s throat again, again, his arse clamping around John’s fingers in uncontrollable spasm, gripping them, a rushing sound in his ears. 

When he comes to himself, he’s spent and limp, panting weakly, and John is curled around him, his head on Sherlock’s chest, penis softening against his right thigh, an arm curved tightly around his chest. Sherlock’s hand is autonomously stroking down John’s back, his lips almost in John’s hair. “That was utterly phenomenal,” he gets out, barely able to articulate the words. 

John’s arm squeezes. “It was for me, too.” He turns his face and presses his lips into Sherlock’s chest. 

“But you did too much for me,” Sherlock says, as his thoughts return to some form of array. “I barely did anything for you.”

John doesn’t lift his head to look at him. “That’s how I wanted it, at least this time,” he says, and there’s something a bit tight in his voice that Sherlock doesn’t quite like somehow. 

“I like reciprocating,” he says, not wanting to make an issue of it, yet still wanting to say it. “I – like touching you. Making you feel good. Usually it’s a bit more mutual that way.” 

John does pull back now, propping himself up on one elbow, though his leg is still slotted in between Sherlock’s. His eyes are sober as they scan Sherlock’s face. “Let me just rinse my mouth,” he says. “I want to kiss you.” 

He’s always rather insistent about this after rimming, so Sherlock lets him go without protest. He watches John through the open door of the bathroom and wonders if there’s something going on that he’s failed to grasp. John rinses well with an antibacterial mouthwash they’ve acquired specifically for this, then washes his face and mouth. He rinses the flannel, wipes himself off with it, then hangs it up and comes back to bed. His face looks relaxed, no lines of tension forming around his eyes or mouth, and he crawls directly onto Sherlock and lowers his mouth to his, kissing him for a long moment, gently and with obvious care and love, and Sherlock feels somewhat reassured by that alone. After, John strokes the damp curls back from his forehead and says, “I was just thinking about how incredibly much I love you and that I wanted to make it more about you tonight. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong whatsoever. I didn’t mean for you to feel as though you weren’t allowed to reciprocate. I just wanted you to feel good. That’s it.” 

Sherlock absorbs this and nods. “All right,” he says. “Well – I did. You’re phenomenal. And I loved feeling you coming like that, inside me.” 

John smiles at him. “Did you? You’ll have to let me feel that sometime. I loved you coming down my throat like that, too.” 

“I didn’t choke you too badly?” Sherlock asks, rather hoping not. 

John shakes his head. “I was entirely preoccupied and didn’t notice one way or another.” He bends and kisses Sherlock again, then again, and again after that. Sherlock reaches down and pulls the blankets up over John’s back and holds him, trying to convey with his arms more than he can find words to say. John wears his ring, and that’s still wholly incredulous to him. John has actually chosen him, against all odds. 

He lets go the minor worry and concentrates on getting as much of himself wrapped around John as humanly possible. 

*** 

The trial begins on Tuesday. The case has been in the news quite a lot lately, and Sherlock isn’t surprised to see a large turn-out in the spectator section. In fact, it’s good that they arrived early; the seats fill and the latecomers are turned away. Mrs Hudson is with them, and they’re quickly joined by Scott, Andrew, Avi, Brad, Doug, Justin, Thom, and Kyle. Scott is tense and tuning out the smalltalk around them. He’s on John’s other side, which is good: John is keeping him calm. Sherlock thinks of Jeremy at the dinner party and what he said to John in the sitting room, then tries not to think about it. It makes him uncomfortable for reasons he has yet to pinpoint. 

There is a murmur of general disapproval when Lucas and Paul are led into the courtroom, separately. They have separate legal teams, Sherlock notes. Then again, Paul did make a full confession which rather laid Lucas bare. It’s somewhat satisfying to know that having been caught will have ended their ill-conceived dalliance, at any rate. He glances down the row at Kyle, who is scowling at both parties – his boss (who is his partner’s ex-husband as well) and his former assistant. 

The opening statements are given. The crown prosecutor then begins to lay out her case. She’s an eagle-faced woman in her late forties, who makes no bones about what has been done. Sherlock listens to her, decides that he’s satisfied with her overall level of intelligence, and marvels again that the courts managed to extradite Lucas and Paul to be tried in Britain, rather than in front of an international tribune. He isn’t sure how the mechanics of the law work to that extent, but it doesn’t matter. It’s eminently satisfying to see the two of them trying not to squirm as the prosecutor begins her case. 

The most interesting parts are the testimonies. The court recesses for a lunch break, during which their group eats together in a café across the street. No one has much appetite. Kyle tells them that Todd is the starting witness. “I hope they don’t try to pin any of this on him,” he says tersely, his usually friendly face troubled. 

“I’m sure they couldn’t possibly,” Andrew assures him. “No one was more shocked!” 

“If he were under suspicion, I rather think they might have asked us to testify, too,” John points out. “But they didn’t. I mean, we saw Todd’s reaction to the news firsthand. He was so upset that he vomited.” 

Kyle is nodding. “That’s what he said.” 

“Poor guy,” Justin offers, stabbing at a cherry tomato with his fork. “That would be a nasty surprise.” 

“Plus the cheating,” Kyle adds, scowling. 

They make their way back over to the courthouse and find their seats again. The judge calls for quiet and Todd is led into the room. He is sworn in, and then the questions begin. Todd speaks quietly but clearly, his voice carrying around the courtroom. He is sombre and entirely credible, and he avoids making eye contact with Lucas at all points. Sherlock doubts strongly that anyone in the room thinks he is lying to protect his ex-spouse. Lucas’ solicitor asks about the divorce and Todd confirms its completion. The solicitor then narrows his eyes and asks about Todd’s current relationship status. 

Todd pauses, looks up into the spectators’ gallery to where Kyle is sitting, then responds, “I’m currently seeing someone.” 

The solicitor pounces on this. “And did this relationship begin before or after divorce proceedings were completed?” he wants to know, glaring at Todd as though this is in any way relevant. 

“Before,” Todd responds, his voice entirely even. “But after I filed. Considering my ex-husband’s record of fidelity, I rather wonder that you have the nerve to try on this line of questioning with me.” 

This shuts the solicitor up and John makes a derisive sound to Sherlock’s right, scowling down at the defense table. Todd is released and a few other witnesses are brought in. The judge eventually dismisses everyone for the day and the trial begins afresh in the morning. 

This time, Jeremy is brought in first. The tone of the trial becomes sharply more dramatic as Jeremy is led through the recounting of his capture and subsequent torture. Scott watches in obvious pain, sitting between Justin and Thom, tearing up as Jeremy slowly paints a horrifying scene. Sherlock can see it vividly, Jeremy’s eyelids taped open so that he couldn’t sleep, the endless drill of repeated questions that he cannot remember now, the long stretches without water or food. The beatings. The confusion. At one point, they had him convinced that he was American, not English, then laughed when he repeated the notion aloud. Sherlock is uncomfortably reminded of his own captures and what followed and attempts to shut out the memories, his lips pressed firmly together. A slight shudder convulses down his spine despite himself and he peripherally sees that John has not missed it. He wishes that John had not noticed and inwardly rebukes himself for not having been able to suppress his reaction better. 

The prosecutor watches Jeremy with compassion, guiding him with questions here or there, but mostly just letting him talk. “Did you forget other things?” she asks. 

Jeremy nods. “Not everything. Lots of things were just – muddied. It was like being stuck in a bad dream. But I could remember certain things. The place where I grew up, in the West Country. And my partner, Scott.” 

“And this level of damage was created just within four days,” the prosecutor says, ostensibly to Jeremy, but really for the sake of the courtroom. 

Jeremy nods again. “I saw some of the other men they took sometimes. They were all worse off than I was. One of them told me that he was Russian but he sounded as English as I am.” 

The defense solicitor gets up then and begins to pepper Jeremy with annoying little questions concerning his record of fidelity, the night in the steam room, his relationship problems with Scott that led them to try going to Ravine Valley in the first place. Jeremy speaks directly and honestly, his voice hoarse in places. The prosecutor objects several times and the judge upholds her objections. Jeremy is finally released and Scott gets up and leaves the spectators’ gallery, impatient to go and find his partner. Sherlock sees Thom exchange a look with Justin as he slides over into Scott’s place, reaching for his hand. 

_We’re okay,_ he thinks, an edge of both anger and defensiveness to his inward voice. _All of us: we’re going to be all right, damn it. They haven’t beaten us._ His notion of _They_ is unclear; the vaguely-formed concept in his head is something along the lines of the world being unkind to people who dare allow themselves to love others. Is success the exception or the rule? Are any of them foolish to even try for this? He glances at John’s ring on his hand and at his own on John’s and wonders whether there is anything, any power that can strengthen love beyond the fear of failure. This is insecurity, some inner voice reminds him. There are no guarantees, and trying to insist upon them is more likely to loosen his foothold on security and permanence and whatever else his not-entirely-defined desires would suggest. 

John glances at him, then reaches for his hand. He’s not often one for public displays of affection, at least not outside of Ravine Valley and that particular circle of people, but now he wants Sherlock’s hand. There is a tension to his shoulders that Sherlock doesn’t like, but perhaps it’s merely the trial.

The prosecution calls Lucas to the stand and Sherlock feels himself stiffen then, too. They listen to his curt, detached answers to the prosecutor’s questions and Sherlock feels a snarling anger rising within himself. Moriarty took pleasure in being overtly wrong, on the wrong side, almost delighting in the chaos rising around him. Lucas Brennan’s emotionless detachment is almost worse. He states that he was not aware of the level of tor – he prevents himself from saying the word _torture_ and changes it to ‘treatment’ – that the men he was selling into sexual slavery were enduring. 

“Torture,” the prosecutor corrects him sharply, pronouncing the word clearly. “You sold these men, at considerable personal profit, into slavery. Your own clients, men who had come to your place of business seeking therapy and respite. You _sold_ them, like items at an auction. Mr Brennan, have you ever been diagnosed by your own counselling staff as a psychopath, unable to tell the difference between right and wrong?” 

Lucas is unmoved and does not respond, studying his cuticles. 

The judge leans into his microphone, frowning, and directs Lucas to answer the question. 

“No,” Lucas says, his tone short but polite. “I am not a psychopath. Just a businessman.” 

This gets a murmur of outrage from the spectators, including their group. “You’re a monster!” Justin shouts out, leaning forward. 

The judge raps his gavel and calls for order. Lucas shifts his gaze upward to the gallery, surveying their group with completely impartial disinterest. Justin is red in the face with anger and Sherlock realises that he’s gripping John’s hand tightly enough to cause pain and guiltily makes himself relax his fingers. “Sorry,” he mutters, but John merely shakes his head. Sherlock glances at the others and sees that they’re reacting similarly, Andrew overtly holding Avi with an arm around his shoulders, a look of combined disgust and loathing on his face as he glares down at Lucas. Justin and Thom are clenching each other’s hands, and even Brad and Doug are leaning together, shoulders hunched, both frowning. 

Paul’s testimony after the lunch break is just as bad. He’s the one who details their strategies for entrapping clients, for choosing which men to target, and how they caught them. Sherlock was correct in thinking that Paul and Lucas specifically targeted men who were already having obvious problems, men whose disappearances would therefore seem easily explained. This, he feels, is doubly unjust: a couple would go to Ravine Valley trying to save their relationship, only to find the therapy difficult, and the temptation to be pried away from their partners a little too easy, needing space or being tempted by Paul’s steam room activities for whatever reason – the need for distance, stress release, or the overt temptation of other bodies, easier, less complicated relations – and paid the price with the lives of both themselves and their partners. It’s a thoroughly disgusting scheme and Sherlock feels unusually violent, wanting to punch something or someone. 

After the closing statements, the jury retires to deliberate and returns within ten minutes, an usually quick turn-around time. Lucas and Paul are swiftly proclaimed guilty and sentenced to lifetime prison sentences in maximum security penitentiaries. Sherlock watches them being led away, hands cuffed behind their backs, and almost wishes that Britain still practised capital punishment. 

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson has found Lestrade and is going on at bitter length, Lestrade nodding and frowning into his paper cup of coffee. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand at last and goes to them, Mrs Hudson turning to them and deploying her indignation to them, too. “Should have sent them to some Russian prison, since this whole thing was based out of there,” she says bitterly. 

Lestrade attempts to explain to her how the extradition process worked and Sherlock mostly tunes out. On a bench at the far end of the corridor, he sees Scott sitting with his arms around Jeremy, the moment exquisitely private, the two of them enclosed in a world that cannot be interrupted or disturbed at the moment. The others have gone, including Todd and Kyle. Pity; he would have liked to see Todd in particular, but he imagines that Todd probably wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Kyle will see to him, he reminds himself. “Come on,” he says to John, realising only after he speaks that he interrupted something. “Let’s go home.” He glances at Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. “Sorry,” he adds stiffly, but they wave it off. 

John nods. “Yeah. Okay.” He says a few more things to the other two, then reaches for Sherlock’s hand again, to Sherlock’s (pleased) surprise, and strides off toward the doors. He waits for Sherlock to flag down a taxi, then says, “I don’t particularly like being here, either.” 

Sherlock looks at him and makes the connection to Moriarty’s trial again. “Bad memories,” he agrees quietly. 

John squeezes his fingers. “Not as bad as yours,” he says, his voice a bit tight. 

Sherlock wants to say something to this, but a taxi is slowing at the kerb in front of them. They get in, Sherlock going first, John pulling the door closed after him. Sherlock gives their address, then leans back against John. “I didn’t mean for you to notice that,” he says, keeping his voice down for the sake of privacy. 

John’s face is a mix of things which he’s obviously trying to suppress, himself. He looks down at their still-joint hands and says, with difficulty, “I like to think I might have made the connection between what happened to Jeremy and what happened to you even if you hadn’t reacted to it.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t want to talk about it, his captivity or what occurred during it. He specifically does not want John to continue to feel guilty about it, or – if not guilty, per se, he does not want John feeling whatever it is that’s making his voice so tight. “It’s – long over,” he says, the words awkward in his mouth. 

“And yet it’s still completely with you,” John returns, his voice firm. “I’ve seen your scars. The evidence of what was done to you is there under my fingertips every day of our lives.” 

Sherlock feels his jaw tighten. “It’s _over_ ,” he insists. Then, “Please, John. Just – let it go, would you? For my sake?” 

John’s face doesn’t lose any of its troubled aspect. He looks away, out the window. “I’m trying to,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else for the duration of the short ride back, looking out the window, though his fingers remain where they are, intertwined with Sherlock’s. Sherlock feels a helpless despair settle over him in spite of this and is almost relieved when they get back to the flat. 

*** 

They drift around the flat that evening, John getting up and going into the kitchen to start dinner around eight. It isn’t until he smells chicken frying with onion and garlic that Sherlock realises that he was hungry. He gets up and goes to the kitchen to offer to help. John glances at him, clearly about to refuse, then changes his mind and says, “Actually, if you want to mash the potatoes when they’re ready, that’d be great.” 

“All right.” Sherlock gets a knife and stabs experimentally at one of the potato quarters cooking in boiling water. It’s still a little firm, so he replaces the lid on the pot and sets about clearing the table instead. He wipes it down and sets it, surreptitiously watching John all the while. The silence between them feels companionable at the moment. John adds a handful of flat snow peas to the pan and stirs them around, then goes to the fridge and withdraws a bottle of chardonnay that Sherlock never noticed him buy. Sherlock watches him uncork it, then says, “I don’t remember you buying that.” 

John looks up and smiles at him. “I bought it the other day when I picked up those cherries.” 

Sherlock doesn’t remember the cherries, either, and decides that perhaps he should not mention this. “Ah,” he says, and concentrates on adjusting the fork next to John’s plate. 

John laughs and comes around the table to hug him. “You don’t remember that, either, do you,” he says, and it’s not a question. His voice is affectionate, though. 

“Not really,” Sherlock admits, though _Not at all_ would have been the better answer. 

John clarifies, his arms around Sherlock, still smiling as he leans back to look up at him. “You were reading about the trial on your laptop. I said I was going to step out and asked if you wanted anything. You said, ‘maybe some cherries; I think they’re in season’, and I said I would see what they had at the shops. I was actually going for milk, and came back with wine and cherries, too. I didn’t point either thing out, so don’t blame yourself for not noticing.” 

Sherlock winces anyway. “I thought I was getting better at that,” he says, with no small amount of rue. 

“You are better,” John reassures him. “You even noticed when I came home.” 

Sherlock does remember this; he’d called John over and pulled him down to kiss him, never minding that John’s hands were full of shopping bags, and John had let him, unprotesting, kissing back with enthusiasm. “I remember,” he says. He pauses. “Should we have the cherries for dessert?” 

“Sure,” John says easily. “I’ll just give them a quick wash. The potatoes are probably ready now.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock bends and kisses him, still feeling the need for some manner of reassurance after the odd tone between them this afternoon. John kisses back, briefly, then breaks away to attend to the chicken and peas. Sherlock mashes the potatoes at the sink, adding a generous dollop of butter and a splash of milk. John is making gravy out of the butter and onion reduction and a bit of cream. Sherlock serves them each a large portion of mashed potato and John adds his chicken/snow pea/gravy concoction with a flourish, and Sherlock fills their wineglasses. They put the cooking things aside and sit down to their meal, and somehow things feel right again. 

They talk about the trial and Lucas and Paul and Todd and Jeremy and Sherlock discovers that John has all of the same opinions about it all as he does. They are a team, he reminds himself. They do this all the same: share opinions as easily and frequently as they share meals. Later, after they’ve eaten through a bowl of the fresh, sweet cherries John bought, they do the washing up together, then go into the sitting room to watch the news. Before it’s over, Sherlock leans into John and starts kisses his neck and throat, arms wrapped possessively around him, and John makes appreciative sounds and turns in his arms to face him, kissing back, his mouth finding Sherlock’s, and this is better still. They kiss on the sofa for a long time, then jointly get up and move to the bedroom. After brief negotiations, they decide to brush their teeth first. Sherlock finishes quickly and goes into the bedroom to strip, waiting for John in bed with the covers across his legs and midsection only, his bare chest gleaming in the lamplight. John’s eyes reflect the gleam when he comes out of the bathroom, shutting off the light behind him, and crosses quickly to get into bed beside him.

He crawls onto Sherlock, his body hardening tangibly against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock touches as much of John as he can reach at once and surges against him as they kiss. Their breathing is heavy in the quiet of the room, the sounds of their kissing filling it. It accelerates together, both of their sounds turning needier, and when John takes one of Sherlock’s legs and moves it upward, a questioning sound in his throat, Sherlock can only agree frantically, John’s fingers seeking, slipping into him in the way he loves, stretching as they kiss hungrily, then replacing his fingers with his penis. There’s another moment of wordless communication, just gentle sounds, John asking, Sherlock acquiescing, and then there’s a push, and the tightness of John entering him, and it’s magnificent. John gives him a moment to adjust, stroking the hair back from Sherlock’s damp forehead, his eyes so full of feeling that it almost hurts, and yet Sherlock finds himself drinking it in as thirstily as a plant in a desert, needing every drop of it that John has to give. His legs are around John’s back, crossed at the ankles, and they begin moving jointly, eyes on each other’s as though nothing else in the world exists for either of them. Sherlock gasps, his mouth open, and feels John’s breath on his lips as he drives steadily into him. It’s good – it’s so good. Sherlock almost wishes that they never had to separate again, that they could just stay permanently physically joined this way. John finds his hands and weaves their fingers together on the pillow on either side of Sherlock’s head as he thrusts into him, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. Sherlock is so hard that his erection is lying flat up against his lower abdomen, John’s rubbing it as he goes, and when he begins to make frantic sounds, John reaches down to give it the particular stroke he’s perfected, a twist of his wrist at the end, the flat of his palm rubbing against Sherlock’s sensitive, leaking head, and Sherlock moans. The sound is low and hoarse, and John speeds up, his speed turning from steady to verging on desperate, his thrusts long and hard and deep, procuring even more incredible sensation deep within Sherlock. His hand speeds up on Sherlock’s penis, too, causing the sensation to spike in silver streamers behind Sherlock’s eyes – he pumps himself into John’s fist and comes hard, his arse clamping around John’s penis within himself, and that’s enough to send John over the edge, too. His breath suspends and then he groans and floods Sherlock’s body with release, his body still trying to push even more deeply into Sherlock’s and he loves that, loves John being as far inside him as possible. 

John’s body goes limp and he lets Sherlock pull him down to himself, their chests and backs heaving as they pant, aftershocks of pleasure still trembling in Sherlock’s limbs. He wraps his arms around John’s back and holds him, hands rubbing into the sweat on John’s back and over the firm roundness of his arse. Every inch of John belongs to him, as every inch of himself belongs to John and he revels in this act every time they partake in it. John recovers sufficiently to raise his head and start kissing Sherlock again, feverishly, as though his need for this hasn’t been at all diminished by his orgasm, and Sherlock loves this, too. He kisses back with every ounce of his remaining energy and feels half-drowned by the amount that his feels for John. He loves John a terrifying amount, and his terror is mitigated only by the fact that John seems to feel every bit as much as he does. 

Eventually they shift so that John is beside him rather than directly onto top of him, their arms and legs still fitted together, and Sherlock falls asleep with John’s hair in his face, feeling somewhat reassured. John loves him. He does not doubt this. 

*** 

The trial being over, they begin to actually plan the wedding. They never specifically said that they were waiting for that particular moment, but the day after the trial, Sherlock brings up photographers whose work he’s been looking through, and John listens to him, then mentions a few venues he’s been thinking about for them to check. They begin planning. On the surface, everything seems normal. Better than normal: good. And yet, Sherlock cannot help but feel that John is holding something back, carefully shielded from him and kept secret, and it frankly scares him. John was so open when this began, and for the first few weeks after they came home from Ravine Valley. Why would he change that now, withdraw something and hide it within himself, deliberately kept from Sherlock’s sight? He can’t even be fully certain that this is the case, but he feels it on an instinctive level. 

He tries sometimes, when things are quiet between them in the evenings. They’ll be sitting together on the sofa or across from one another in their chairs. When they’re on the sofa, they sit next to one another and lean together or someone will have an arm around the other’s shoulders, or they’ll hold hands. If they’re in their chairs, their feet will be in each other’s laps, sometimes rubbing or massaging each other’s arches and ankles. Touching somehow, always. John is every bit as attentive and loving and sensual in bed, and afterward always feels like too intimate a time to bring this up, so Sherlock gives it a try or two in the evening instead. It never goes anywhere, John assuring him that everything is fine, stilling his half-articulated question that never seems to manage to ask the real the real thing

This time they’re both on the sofa, reading novels as the evening deepens into night. Their legs are touching and across the room, a fire is crackling in the grate, warding off the November chill. It’s the eighteenth of the month. Sherlock does a hasty calculation in his head: three months until the wedding, plus a week or so. He opens his mouth, inhales, then hesitates. Perhaps he’ll only stir up trouble by trying to ask this again, but at the same time, how can he just leave it to go on like this? He feels John drifting away from him and it makes him feel helpless. “John,” he begins, waiting for John to look up, acknowledge him. 

It takes him a moment to do so. “Hmm?” John asks, not looking up from his book. 

This isn’t enough. He needs John to pay proper attention. The thought makes Sherlock feel unduly sharp. “Look – I don’t know what’s – ” The words burst out and he stops, not knowing how to finish his sentence. John has looked up, though, his book forgotten for the moment, his face wary. Sherlock tries again. “You’d tell me if something were bothering you, wouldn’t you?” he asks, trying not to sound too plaintive 

John’s confusion deepens. “Of course,” he says, and raises his book again, as though the matter has been entirely settled. 

Sherlock doesn’t feel that it has. He inhales again, but John cuts him off before he can ask. 

“There’s nothing bothering me. There you are. Easy.” John gives a smile that Sherlock recognises as a sarcastic, slightly impatient one that he sometimes uses on people they’re interviewing – clients, witnesses and the like. 

The smile bothers Sherlock almost more than the clipped words. He looks down into the open book in his lap, troubled and unsure of what to say to this. It’s not like John to shut him out so thoroughly. He thinks of that afternoon, when Mrs Hudson was up and said something about Mary and referenced the shooting, the way John had gone quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the cup of tea they’d all been having together, and wonders if this has something to do with it. He wishes he were permitted to ask, but every time he tries, John shuts it down mercilessly. He doesn’t speak now, and the silence between them grows distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Hey.” John’s voice is warmer now, and he reaches for Sherlock’s wrist and leans in, kissing his shoulder. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that. Everything’s fine, Sherlock. I know it’s hard to believe that this is really happening, but it is. And I’m really glad it is.”

Sherlock turns his head and looks into John’s eyes, wanting to ask him plainly if this is really the truth, but somehow the words won’t come. He can feel the doubt on his face, though, and can’t seem to arrange his expression into something more neutral. Instead, he asks, “Did that photographer confirm?” 

John’s face relaxes just perceptibly: wedding planning is a safe topic. “Yeah, he did,” he says. “And Kyle actually offered to do our engagement photo shoot in a fortnight, when we’re up. He says there might even be some snow by then.” 

“Good.” The word leaves his mouth automatically, but it’s hollow. 

John puts his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and kisses him on the jaw. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he says into the skin just below Sherlock’s ear, and it sounds convincing enough. His lips touch Sherlock’s neck over and over again and Sherlock feels some of the tightness dissipate from his shoulders. He cannot resist John when this is happening, and doesn’t care to try. He puts his hands over John’s left forearm and squeezes it. John reaches for his face and pulls it sideways, putting his mouth on Sherlock’s and kissing him for a long moment that stretches out and out, the one kiss becoming two, three, and a fourth that doesn’t let go as they reach for each other, hands fighting into each other’s clothing, stripping pieces off and dropping them to the floor. This – _this_ feels like security, like solid ground, like home. Sherlock doesn’t doubt the way John touches him, his hands gentle and strong and certain and tender all in one, stroking over his bare skin and making him feel loved beyond measure, beyond doubt, and yet in between times, the doubt persists. (Never mind that for now.) Sherlock lets himself go, surging into John’s kiss entirely, pulling John down onto himself once they’re nude, feeling the hardness of John’s erection in fleeting, tantalising touches before their bodies arrange themselves properly, already thrusting together in a rhythm they both know now. Sherlock reaches blindly at the coffee table, fumbling until his fingers touch the tube of lubricant they’ve left here from previous occasions on the sofa, and John barely pauses in his rocking rhythm as Sherlock slicks it over them both, though he moans and goes a little harder. Sherlock puts both hands on John’s arse, loving the feel of the muscles flexing and relaxing over and over again. His own genitals are stiff and full, quivering in need and pleasure combined, straining against John’s. He loves this – loves it unabashedly. Anyone could come into this room and say anything, do anything, and Sherlock would never stop doing this with John. Not for anything. He lifts himself from the leather cushions and pushes back against John, wrapping a leg possessively around John’s arse and thigh for maximum leverage. It’s almost as good as John entering him, but quicker this way, better when they’re more urgent. Round two will almost certainly be slower, more deliberate, more drawn-out, the pleasure deeper and better still, but for now this is all they need. He can feel John’s testicles against his own, high and firm and full, and the thought of it makes his mouth water. John is panting into his ear, their cheekbones pressed together almost painfully as they rock and thrust together, the crescendo building inescapably. Then he feels it – the telltale twitch in John’s muscles the instant before he climaxes, his breath hitching, and then he starts to come, the heavy gush of warmth and wetness spattering onto Sherlock’s stomach and chest, and he groans out loud. 

“Sorry!” John gasps, still coming, tremors running down his back as he spurts out another round. “Didn’t mean to – ”

“I like it!” Sherlock interrupts him, breathless and far too aroused to bother about courtesies of who’s supposed to come first. “Don’t stop – you can do a little more – ”

John makes a high, tight, desperate sound as Sherlock’s hand closes around him and strokes roughly, until his body jets out one last burst of release, and then he’s sagging in Sherlock’s arms, mouth moving against his neck, breathing out praises and admiration and gratitude. He lies there for a moment or two, panting as the tremors of aftershock run through his frame, then he lifts his head and looks down into Sherlock’s eyes, smiling. “Now you,” he says, his voice sultry. “What do you want? My hand or my mouth? Or – ?”

His brows lift suggestively, but Sherlock shakes his head. “Later,” he says, his voice punctured with breath and need. “Your – mouth, then, if you w – ”

“Oh, I want,” John reassures him, and kisses his way down Sherlock’s taut, trembling body, pausing to curl his tongue around each nipple, making Sherlock pant even harder, then uses his lips and tongue both the rest of the way down his abdomen until Sherlock’s erection makes contact with John’s chin. John licks the head of it once, then says with admiration, “You’re so hard…” 

He licks again, his tongue firm and perfect and Sherlock groans and flings a forearm over his eyes. 

John catches at his hand and laces their fingers together. “Watch,” he invites. Then, his eyes still on Sherlock’s, John takes his erection fully into his mouth, which he begins to slide up and down Sherlock’s length, his tongue cupping it from beneath. 

Sherlock feels himself grow impossibly even harder and has trouble breathing. Fluid is seeping from the head of his penis onto John’s tongue. John’s mouth feels so good that he is unaware of everything else but this, the sensation of it, and the knowledge that John wants to do this for him, that he even loves doing this for him. John has both hands on him, too, stroking in time with his bobbing mouth, his eyes still locked to Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s legs are twitching, his foot scrabbling for purchase along John’s back as he thrusts up into the wet heat of John’s wonderful, brilliant mouth. He feels himself teetering on the edge of his orgasm and tries to say so to John, but not much that makes any sense comes out of his mouth. 

Somehow John understands anyway and backs off a little, sucking hard at Sherlock’s sensitive head, and that does it – his orgasm spills over, flooding John’s mouth, his body jerking, caught in the intensity of the pleasure travelling through his neural pathways like lightning, his breath caught in his throat. He’s powerless to stop it and doesn’t care to try – John is swallowing around him, tongue rubbing over Sherlock’s erupting slit and drinking down what comes as a result of it. And looking down the length of his own body to see John lying between his legs, face in his lap, his mouth full of Sherlock’s still-swollen, flushed-dark penis, is breathtaking in and of itself. It’s not the first time he’s seen this particular sight and he hopes rather devoutly that it won’t be the last, but it’s breathtaking nevertheless. He’s panting, eyes on John’s again, trying to convey silently how much he feels at the moment. 

John seems to understand, though, and finds Sherlock’s hands and kisses them repeatedly as Sherlock comes down from the high of the orgasm, his limbs still quivering, then slides back up and lets Sherlock have his mouth again. Sherlock can taste himself there and that’s a rare, exquisite thing to experience, too: the taste of what John has done for him. He feels more certain than ever of John’s love, all ten of their fingers tangled together on either side of his head as they kiss and kiss and kiss. He must be imagining it, that John is keeping something from him, something that he’s worried about. Or perhaps it simply has nothing to do with this. Sherlock’s gut instinct remains unconvinced, but he forgets his gut instinct as John pulls him up from the sofa, still holding him tightly, his jaw and tongue still moving as he kisses Sherlock with an incredibly satisfactory level of passion, then slowly begins moving them down the corridor to the bedroom. 

John lifts off for a moment when they reach the doorway, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls in their disarray from the sofa. “Teeth,” he says, smiling into Sherlock’s eyes. “And then round two.” 

Sherlock nods and backs John into the bathroom to press him back against the counter, still kissing, and shoves his doubts down as far as they will go. Right now, this is all that matters. 

*** 

They’re sitting in the kitchen a few days later, Sherlock feeling cautiously more settled about things than he has in awhile, a stack of invitations between them on the table. The printers called while John was out, so Sherlock went to pick them up and now they’re addressing the envelopes together, dividing the guest list roughly in half. 

Mrs Hudson comes up, her heels tapping on the stairs. “I’ve brought you a lasagna,” she announces. “I could never eat a great big thing like this all by myself, so I thought I’d bring it up. No one’s started dinner yet, have they?” 

They both put their pens down and look up at her, John smiling. “No, we hadn’t even talked about what to do for supper,” he assures her. “Lasagna would be fantastic!” 

She beams at John, and then at Sherlock as though he was somehow responsible for John’s response. “I’ll just set it down here, then,” she says. “Unless you’re not hungry yet. I could pop it in the oven to keep it warm, if you think you’d rather wait…?”

Sherlock looks across at John, who shrugs minutely. “No, there’s fine,” he says. “Thanks very much.” He feels John’s foot tap his ankle under the table in a subtle prompt, and remembers to add, “Are you going to stay and eat with us? You’re very welcome, of course.” 

“Oh, well, I just might, then,” Mrs Hudson says, looking pleased. “I’ll just have a tiny piece, see how it turned out. You didn’t want to be on your own tonight?” 

“No, of course not,” John says, a little too quickly, and this makes Sherlock’s stomach twist a little. Why should that suggestion be preposterous? They frequently _do_ want to be on their own. John glances at him, then adds, “We’re only addressing invitations, anyway. You can help us after, if you like.” 

Mrs Hudson agrees, then bustles about getting plates. Sherlock gathers up the mostly unaddressed invitations and puts them back in the box they came in, and John collects the addressed ones and puts them in a separate stack on top. “I’ll go and see what we’ve got in for wine,” he says, so Sherlock carries the box over to the counter to keep out of harm’s way. 

The lasagna smells delicious and he has no objection to Mrs Hudson’s presence. He’s just bothered by the speed of John’s reaction. Was he that relieved to get out of addressing invitations? Is it reminding him too much of their preparations for his wedding to Mary? Did he particularly not want them to be on their own tonight? (Is he imagining too much? Is John merely being polite and wanting to assure Mrs Hudson of her welcome? Probably.) Sherlock scowls inwardly and tells himself to relax. He and John drink the better part of a bottle of cabernet, Mrs Hudson taking only a small glass. They eat and chat and Sherlock wonders if it’s merely paranoia on his part that’s making him see lines of tension around John’s eyes and stretching from his nose to frame his mouth. He can’t ask, though, particularly not with Mrs Hudson there with them. (Is that why John really wanted her to stay? He wishes he knew.) Sherlock subtly checks his calendar and notes that it’s only six days until they’re to go up to Ravine Valley for their engagement photo shoot. Perhaps John will prove more willing to discuss whatever he is steadfastly keeping to himself once they’re back there, back in the place where this started. 

Or perhaps it’s nothing. Sherlock scowls, poking at an uneaten tomato from his salad, and neither Mrs Hudson nor John comments on the fact. They should notice, he thinks rebelliously. Especially John. They’re supposed to be _happy_. They’re planning their wedding – a wedding they both wanted so much that they each proposed and accidentally bought each other the same ring. What could have changed to make John doubt this, make him stop wanting it? Has he become paranoid? Is this some sort of self-sabotage that he’s subconsciously attempting to wreak upon their relationship? If nothing is going on, then why is he so intent on feeling a slight drift between them? He attempts to keep the frown off his face as Mrs Hudson chatters to John about the wedding, the two of them seemingly having accepted that he has withdrawn from the conversation. He makes himself tune back in, not wanting to miss out on whatever John is talking about. 

“Oh, you know,” John is saying with a shrug. He drains the last of the cabernet from his glass. “We’ll probably just wear suits, for all that we’ve been joking about fur capes and that.” 

“But it’s a winter wedding,” Mrs Hudson persists. “Don’t you want to be at all thematic? White suits, at least?” 

“And look like third rate waiters? I think not,” Sherlock says, the frown coming out on its own now. He reaches for the salad and helps himself to a little more, then nods at John’s plate with a questioning quirk of his eyebrows. 

John nods and lifts his plate, accepting the helping of salad. “Thanks,” he says, but his attention is more on Mrs Hudson. “I don’t know,” he says. “We haven’t really discussed it yet.” 

“Well, you’d better get on with it,” Mrs Hudson scolds. “It’s only just a couple of months away now! And what about that engagement party. When is that happening? You’ve already been engaged for months!” 

John glances at him. Sherlock clears his throat. “We’re going up to Ravine Valley next weekend for the photo shoot,” he says. “We’ll plan the party when we get back.” 

“Perhaps you should plan it now and get your guests invited before you go,” Mrs Hudson pushes. 

“We’re busy enough with the actual invitations,” John says, his own brow creased. “Just – drop it, will you? We’ve got enough to think about.” 

He’s not quite sharp, but it makes Mrs Hudson blink and sit back. “All right, then,” she says mildly. “It’s just a lot to plan in such a short time. I know you don’t want to push it back to the spring and I’m not suggesting it. I think a winter wedding is a lovely idea. You’ll just let me know, then, if you’d like any help. I’m just downstairs. But then, you know that.” 

She’s jabbering away and Sherlock has the wit to realise that she’s hurt. He carefully exchanges a look with John. “We know that,” he says, making his voice as gentle as he can. “You’ll have to excuse us, Mrs H. We’re not quite as organised as we should be, that’s all. You’re just – ahead of the ball on some of this. You’re quite right: we should get on top of the engagement party. Perhaps – just if you like – we could do with some baking for it. At this rate we might just call it a holiday party, have it early in December before all the other Christmas things get in the way. What would you think of that?” He glances at John again, including him in the question, and John shrugs and agrees. 

Mrs Hudson picks an invisible piece of lint off the sleeve of her blouse. “Yes, all right,” she says, sounding somewhat mollified. “That sounds nice. And of course I’ll look after the baking. You just leave that to me.” 

John clears his throat, obviously aware that he’s misstepped. “Some more wine?” he asks, lifting the bottle, but Mrs Hudson shakes her head. 

“I’m fine, thanks. Had more than enough. Any more and I’ll be floating.” 

“Cup of tea, then?” John presses. “I’ll put the kettle on.” 

She opens her mouth to protest, but Sherlock steps in before she can. “Oh, go on, stay for a cup,” he says. “I’ll make that awful weedy stuff you like, the herbal decaf. Won’t keep you up half the night.” 

She hesitates a moment longer, then relents. “Oh, go on then,” she says, and John springs to his feet in obvious relief. 

“Great,” he says, filling and switching on the kettle, then rummaging in the cupboards for three cups. 

Sherlock gathers the plates and silverware and takes it all to the sink. “Are you taking the rest of the lasagna back down?” he asks archly, angling deliberately, and Mrs Hudson shakes her head. 

“Oh goodness, no. I made it for you.” 

They always play this game, so Sherlock dutifully follows the correct steps. “Take a piece for your lunch tomorrow, at least,” he says, and she permits this. He cuts a large slice and puts it on a plate, wrapping it securely in plastic wrap. The rest, he reseals in its aluminium foil and places in the refrigerator. Coming back, he stops beside John, who is arranging cups and saucers on the tea tray, and puts a jar of honey beside the spoons. He leans into John at the same time, meaning it as a comforting gesture over his inadvertent snub to Mrs Hudson, and John looks up sideways at him, his eyes troubled. Sherlock leans over and kisses him on the forehead, just briefly, then moves away again. 

The kettle boils and they drink most of a pot of tea, some blend of chamomile and wildflowers that promises drowsiness and makes Sherlock think of meadows and summertime. It’s not that bad, actually, especially with honey. Mrs Hudson hugs them both goodnight, then takes herself off downstairs, leaving them alone. The lines between John’s eyes have eased a little, but they’re still there. Sherlock takes the tea tray to the work top and sets it down, wanting to ask, but even as he turns to John, John stops him. 

“Look, I’m sorry I snapped at her like that,” he says, his voice abrupt. “I didn’t mean to and I’m sorry. I don’t want to have a whole talk about it, though, all right?” 

Sherlock had already opened his mouth to bring it up, and closes it now. “All right,” he says, a bit stung. “I wasn’t going to – make a production of it.” 

John glances at him but doesn’t quite make eye contact. He hesitates for a moment, obviously debating whether or not to say anything to this, then eventually decides against it. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he says, and that ends the conversation. 

They often get ready for bed together, but Sherlock feels distinctly uninvited to be a part of John’s rituals tonight. This isn’t paranoia, he tells himself, trying to keep the hurt at bay as he washes the dishes instead of following John down the corridor, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. It doesn’t take long, so he straightens up the kitchen and sitting room, too. When he hears John leave the bathroom, he goes into it from the corridor and closes both doors. He goes through his own nightly ablutions in quick efficiency, then strips off his trousers and shirt and folds them, leaving them on top of the laundry hamper. He removes his socks and puts them into the hamper, hesitates, then decides to leave his underwear on. They usually sleep naked (more efficient), but he senses that John has effectively shut the door on anything physical between them tonight. This stings, too; they are normally intimate every night, or very nearly. Sherlock shuts off the bathroom lights and goes into the bedroom with a small amount of trepidation. 

John is sitting up against the headboard, reading a historical novel about World War II, the lamp on his side of the bed switched on. Sherlock goes around to the far side and gets quietly into bed, feeling strangely unwelcome in his own bedroom. He is palpably unhappy and turns on his side away from John, not turning on his lamp. 

He feels John pause. “Are you going to sleep?” John asks. 

Sherlock gives a twitch of his shoulder. “I might as well, if we’re not…” He can’t finish his sentence, and it hangs there between them. 

John sighs. The book gets set down and the lamp turned off, but instead of turning his own back on Sherlock, he slides over in the bed and curls himself around Sherlock from behind, an arm coming warmly around his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice both tight, yet also warmer than it was before. “I don’t know what’s got into me. Not tonight. But, er, maybe in the morning. Okay?” 

Sherlock swallows and it’s very audible in the silence of the bedroom. “Okay.” The word sounds dry, like a dead leaf on the pillow beside his mouth. He finds John’s fingers on his chest and covers them with his hand and John allows this. Nonetheless, it takes him a long time to fall asleep. 

*** 

He wakes with John’s mouth and hands on him, and awareness rushes upon him with a thrill, pleasure blooming between his legs. He blinks, clearing his throat and focuses on the image of John lying in the open vee of his thighs, smiling up at him. 

“Good morning,” John says, his eyes full of mirth, then puts his mouth back on Sherlock’s rapidly-hardening penis. 

The sensation floods his mouth with saliva and he swallows hard, then exhales on a groan. His hips twitch jerkily in response to John’s bobbing mouth, his head falling back onto the pillows. “Morning,” he gets out, and it’s breathy, which makes John chuckle. The vibration of his voice sends ripples of shivery sensation through Sherlock’s pelvis and he reaches back to grip the headboard and John makes another sound, affirmative this time, and slides his hands beneath Sherlock to grip at his arse cheeks. Perhaps it’s because he’s still half-asleep, but it’s easier to be uninhibited now, pushing into John’s mouth in rhythm with his movements, able to absorb and deeply appreciate the pleasure cycling through his bloodstream and pounding in his eardrums. It’s wonderfully base and uncomplicated, just two bodies and the build-up of tension and pleasure in one. He waits until he can hardly stand it any more, his entire body taut and quivering with need, then makes an incoherent sound of warning before the wave breaks over him and his body floods John’s mouth with release, the pleasure singing in his ears and glittering through his frame as he pours himself uncontrollably into the haven of John’s hot, wet, perfect mouth. 

He lies there panting for a moment as the stars clear from his vision, then rolls over and tackles John. “My turn,” he says, still breathless, and to his secret relief, John doesn’t argue it. He might have got himself off during it, but he didn’t – he’s nude and very hard, his penis flushed dark in contrast to the relative pallor of his stomach, and Sherlock needs to put his mouth on it immediately. He settles himself between John’s legs and gives a long swipe of his tongue from root to tip, then applies the flat of his tongue to the soft hairiness of John’s testicles, which twitch and quiver in response. “I slept through you getting my underwear off,” Sherlock says, looking up at John along the length of his torso. 

John is already breathing quickly, and now he nods. “You were sleeping pretty deeply,” he says. “I almost thought it was a shame to wake you, but…”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock says, brushing this off. “It was a nice way to wake up.” He stops talking now in favour of curling his fingers around John’s penis and pulling it to his mouth. He mouths at its crimson head, enveloping it in wet heat, then brings his tongue into it and rubs gently all around, tasting the wetness welling from the slit. John exhales deeply and puts a hand into Sherlock’s hair, not pushing or guide, just stroking through his sleep-tangled curls and Sherlock looks up at him, not lifting off or asking, just holding his gaze as he lavishes attention on this most sensitive part of John’s body. It feels exquisitely intense. John looks almost as though he wants to say something but can’t decide whether or not to. Sherlock waits a moment, but when nothing comes of it, he devotes his attention fully to the task at hand. John’s penis seems to grow as he puts it in his mouth, stroking over it with his lips and tongue and hand, returning again and again to the head. His fingers explore, caressing John’s testicles and pressing into that place behind that makes him groan and grip his hair a little tighter. John pulls his knees back a little in subtle invitation – subtle enough that Sherlock wants to ask first. He looks up without taking his mouth from John’s penis and makes a questioning sound, his fingers probing further back, and John nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, a bit hoarse. He gropes behind his pillow for a moment, then presses a tube into Sherlock’s free hand. 

The lid is already off. Sherlock gets some into his hand, then transfers it to the appropriate fingers and begins to massage at John’s entrance. While John tops the majority of the time, he nonetheless enjoys being touched here, having Sherlock’s fingers within him, as they discovered at Ravine Valley. Sherlock prides himself on being rather good at locating John’s prostate and he likes touching it every bit as much as John enjoys having him touch it, so Sherlock frequently tries to incorporate it into their array of activities and ways of giving one another pleasure. He sucks and kisses John’s penis with all of his focus, tasting the growing need and feeling it in the way John’s legs are trembling around him. He’s just beginning to think that John’s climax is nearly upon him when John’s voice breaks into his concentration. 

“Sherlock – ” It’s a gasp and Sherlock looks up, concerned. John moves his right leg a little. “You’re hard,” he breathes. “I don’t know how you do that – but since you are – ”

Sherlock blinks, then realises John is correct: his erection has somehow managed to renew itself in record speeds (as it sometimes does, which is still a happy surprise for both of them when it happens) and is pushing wetly against John’s calf. “Oh,” he says. “What do you – ”

John doesn’t waste words. “I want you to fuck me. Come here.” His hands are already tugging Sherlock upward, so that he’s sitting astride John’s belly. John has the lubricant in his hands and within seconds he’s stroking Sherlock into full hardness, both of them breathing hard and watching John do it. 

“Like this?” Sherlock gets out, meaning with John on his back, and John nods. 

“Just – shift back like – yeah, that’s – ahh – ” John’s voice rises as Sherlock shifts as directed, then finds the right angle and presses forward in one long, smooth motion, burying himself in John’s body like a puzzle piece completing a puzzle at long last. 

He waits just long enough for the muscle spasms gripping his penis to ease down, then begins a slow but steady rocking motion as he thrusts into John. John is gasping, his legs crossed at the ankles over Sherlock’s back, hands gripping his shoulders. Then, after Sherlock has begun to accelerate, the need mounting in both of them, John’s arms come fully around his neck, his feet hooking around Sherlock’s arse, keeping Sherlock so close that he’s barely pulling out to thrust, the majority of the motion happening entirely within John’s body, he’s buried so deeply. His second orgasm is both gentler and deeper than the first, its beginning and ending less clearly defined. He can’t even say whether he’s ejaculating fluid or how much, but the pleasure is cresting again regardless. John’s orgasm happens within the span of his, shorter and sharper, his voice rising into a shout as Sherlock’s hand squeezes around him even in the throes of his own bliss, and John spatters his hand and forearm and chest as he comes. 

He comes to himself, lying boneless and heavy on John, draped over him like a blanket, and John is stroking his back and kissing his hair. Sherlock raises his head and props himself up a little, looking down into John’s face with something very much like wonder. John smiles up at him and something in Sherlock’s chest dissolves. “I love you,” John says, and the dissolution process accelerates noticeably. 

“I love _you_ ,” he says in response, and John pulls his face down and kisses him soundly. 

*** 

After that morning, things are better. They shower together and cook breakfast and things feel normal again. They snicker about nothing in particular and feed each other bits of food as they prepare it, and no one says anything about the night before. Instead, John brings up booking tickets on the train for their weekend trip to Ravine Valley, and mentions booking another massage while they’re there. Sherlock feels cautiously relieved, but he’s not wholly convinced, either, but doesn’t want to peel back the surface and see why John’s laughter doesn’t go deeper. If only he knew a little more about relationships of this sort and what to expect. Todd mentioned ebb and flow, but they’re only a few months in. Surely they should still be in ‘flow’ mode. Perhaps this is normal, though. How can he possibly know? 

Friday morning dawns, the sunrise breaking into both the bedroom and Sherlock’s eyes. Friday: they’re going back to Ravine Valley today. He smiles and stretches, then turns over to face John, who is snoring gently, his mouth open. Sherlock has never minded this and kisses John’s lower lip. The snoring stops at once, John blinking and swallowing sleepily. Sherlock kisses him again and John makes a sound in his throat and kisses back, his arm coming around Sherlock’s back. 

“What time is it?” he asks against Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Early.” Sherlock kisses him again, drawn to John’s mouth like a drug. “We have time.” 

“Mmm.” John is still half-asleep but leans in, pressing Sherlock back against the sheets and shifting onto him. Their erections slide together and Sherlock can feel the weight of John’s testicles against his own, heavy and warm. His own ache gently at the very thought of last night. It was practically acrobatic, eventually becoming a take on sixty-nine, with Sherlock rimming John as John sucked him halfway down his throat, fingers buried to the hand inside Sherlock as Sherlock gripped John’s penis and rubbed it into ecstasy. Now, his growing morning erection twitches at the memory of it, pulsing against John’s. John is moving rhythmically, though still slowly, easing into it. “What do you want?” he asks, stroking Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead and rubbing at his lips with his thumb. 

Sherlock doesn’t want to move. “This,” he says honestly. “Just – you. Like this.”

John exhales and nods, his lips parting. “Yeah. Okay.” Sherlock finds the lubricant and gets some onto both of them, his eyes on John’s as he does it, feeling John’s breath on his lips. John moves into a more deliberate rhythm now, not too fast, rocking against him, then lowering his head to kiss Sherlock, open-mouthed and hot. Sherlock puts one hand on the back of John’s neck to anchor him there, the other gripping John’s arse. He relishes the hardness of John’s erection against his own, every motion and point of contact a pleasure point, sparkles of sensation lighting up every nerve ending. He gets both legs twined around John, feet digging into his arse, thrusting up against him in counter-rhythm and John groans into his mouth. He lifts off and kisses Sherlock’s neck hotly, his breath shaking on the exhalation and Sherlock loves it, loves being able to track John's progress toward orgasm so perfectly, so exactly. He reaches down and pushes his long middle finger into the enticing divide of John’s arse and rubs directly at his entrance and John curses into his skin, his breath getting noticeably shakier. He’s thrusting hard now, right on the edge, so Sherlock reaches between them to grip them both and John’s voice rises into almost a whine, high-pitched and needy. Sherlock’s fist is a blur, rubbing his thumb hard against John’s leaking slit, and that does it – John sucks in a lungful of air, then shouts out as his hips jerk forward, thrusting as comes in several long, hot spurts. Sherlock lets go of his own erection in favour of stroking John through it, encouraging several more dribbles of release to squeeze out, then cradles his testicles with loving attention, all of John’s package fitting into his palm now that he’s come. He rubs gently with the flat of his palm until John lifts his face from the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder and jags his brows upward. 

“Your turn,” he says, his voice low and predatory again, and Sherlock shivers in anticipation. 

John trails his hand down Sherlock’s torso and curls his fingers around Sherlock’s obscenely hard penis, so sensitive that it jerks the instant John touches it. John could probably just tap on it and it would be enough to make him come. John clearly has a better idea, however. He kisses Sherlock deeply, lavish with his tongue and lips, then slips down and sucks Sherlock’s testicles into his mouth and sucks them hard. It produces a noise Sherlock has never heard himself make before, a single, loud sound on the same pitch, and John goes on sucking and starts rubbing Sherlock’s penis properly. Sherlock’s legs are spasming and twitching, restless against the sheets, until John moves his mouth to Sherlock’s penis and takes him as deeply inside as he can manage. Sherlock’s legs fold themselves around John’s shoulders and back of their own accord. He’s so far gone now that he can hardly limit his own movements, bracing his hands against the sheets as he thrusts uncontrollably into the depths of John’s warm, flexible throat. His breath has cut out, stars blooming behind his eyes as lack of oxygen sets in, and then he’s coming in a rush, coming with both hands clamped around John’s head, feeling John’s nose buried in his lower belly as he comes and comes and comes. There’s breath flooding out of him and he may be shouting; he doesn’t know. 

When it stops, he’s still seeing stars, but John’s face is there, too, his mouth on Sherlock’s, and that’s good. That’s really good. He’s exhausted and John is still holding him as they turn in wordless, sated agreement onto their sides, John spooning him from behind, an arm curled around him as he continues to hold Sherlock’s spent genitals in his hand, tucked protectively between his legs. They sleep. 

*** 

When the alarm goes off, John starts, inhaling sharply. Sherlock opens his eyes and reaches out to turn it off, then yawns and stretches. John lets go of his semi-soft penis now and rolls onto his back to stretch. Sherlock turns over, drawn to him like a magnet, and curls himself around John again, all of his skin already missing contact with John’s. He pushes his mostly-soft penis up against John’s thigh, missing the warmth of his hand, and hugs John to himself in unabashed want. 

He can hear the smile in John’s voice. “Morning,” he says. “You’re like a big jungle cat, you. All heavy and soft.” 

Sherlock turns his face into John’s chest and kisses it without opening his eyes. “Soft?” 

John chuckles for some reason. “Yeah. Definitely. Right now, at least. Though maybe not one part of you.” 

Sherlock makes a deeply contented sound and rubs himself a little against John’s thigh. “Possibly not.” 

“Hey.” John tugs at his hair, so Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at him with a questioning sound. “We have to get up. Ravine Valley.” 

“I haven’t forgotten. I’m just… relishing this.” Sherlock closes his eyes again. “That was phenomenal, earlier.” 

“It _was_. And last night, too.” John reaches down and slaps Sherlock’s arse, which he knows Sherlock likes. “Come on. Get up and shower with me.”

The idea has immediate appeal. Sherlock opens his eyes. “All right.” 

John gets out from under him and pads over to the bathroom nude. Sherlock rolls out of bed on the far side and watches for an admiring half-second, then unwinds the sheet from around his ankle and hastens after John’s retreating form. 

The ride up on the train is quiet. A silence seems to have descended over them. They’ve only been back to Ravine Valley once, and it was just a couple of weeks after their initial stay. Now it’s been months, and Sherlock finds himself eager to return, to see the gentle hills in their autumnal glory. Kyle said it might snow by this weekend. Their massage is booked and John has brought up Kirk’s cooking more than once, too. Another thing to look forward to. Sherlock looks over at John, who is looking out the window, withdrawn into himself, and despite everything, the now-familiar twist of doubt stirs within Sherlock again. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a little, endeavouring to keep his voice casual. 

John’s bad shoulder twitches. “Nothing,” he says, his own voice light. 

Sherlock thinks about trying to follow up on this, then decides to let it go. “All right,” he says, and if it sounds dubious, it’s because it is. 

John, however, does not respond. 

*** 

When they arrive, Kyle greets them like long-lost family and makes a point of escorting them to room nineteen, which was theirs the last time they were here. There is a basket containing three bottles of champagne, the same bakery-wrapped box of chocolate-covered strawberries they were given last time, and tucked discreetly in behind that, several bottles of flavoured lubricant.

“I chose them myself,” Kyle announces with pride. “Had to see to it that you’re well-stocked! There are also the drawers beside the bed, of course, so avail yourselves of whatever you need!” He grins at them both. “All right: so I understand that you want to do the photo shoot tomorrow, weather providing, and you’ve got your massage on Sunday. Is there anything else I should know about in advance?” 

Sherlock looks at John, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. We might hike down to the bridge and just have a look around, see what things look like. Has it snowed? Will we need special footwear or anything? We’ve brought hiking boots.” 

Kyle shakes his head. “The snow’s held off so far, but that could literally change any day. It’s still very pretty in there, all bronze and gold with a bit of green. It gets quite chilly, though, so do bundle up. If you need gloves, hats, et cetera, just stop by the front desk.” He unclips something from his clipboard and puts it on the table. “There’s your meal and services card. You know the drill: just tick off what you’d like to eat and do, and we’ll make it happen.” 

“Thanks, Kyle,” John says, with real gratitude. “You’re fantastic.” 

“Quite,” Sherlock echoes. “Thanks so much.” 

“I live to serve.” Kyle goes to the door, then turns back. “Come and sit with Todd and I at dinner. He’d have come out to greet you but he’s leading a workshop at the moment.” 

“Will do,” Sherlock assures him, and Kyle goes. 

They unpack a little and John makes them coffee. “How soon did you want to head out?” he asks. 

“No rush. Whenever you like.” Sherlock pulls out one of the chairs and sits down at the table, pulling over the meal card to have a look. “Do you want to hear tonight’s dinner options?” 

“Yes!” John sounds excited and comes over to sit down in the other chair. “What have we got?” 

Sherlock clears his throat and reads. “Option one: Chicken tikka masala served on a mountain of basmati rice, served with fresh mango salad and fresh vegetables. Option two: half a roasted chicken cooked in lemon and garlic, served with roasted baby potatoes and carrots and a choice of salads. Option three: roast beef served inside a giant Yorkshire pudding, served with gravy and peas on a heap of garlic mashed potatoes.” 

John groans. “Good lord, it all sounds fantastic. What are you going to pick?” 

Sherlock studies the card again. “The roast beef in Yorkshire pudding,” he says. He looks across at John. “What appeals to you the most?” 

John contemplates, weighing the options as though they’re of paramount importance. “Put me down for the half roasted chicken, then,” he says. “Only you won’t mind if I cadge a bite or two of yours, will you?” 

“Of course not. We can share them, if you like.” 

“Perfect,” John says. “All right: let me just change into something warmer and then we can head out into the hills.” 

“All right.” Sherlock marks the card, then goes to pin it on the door. He strips off his trousers and buttoned shirt and puts on a long-sleeved thermal-knit shirt followed by a seldom-worn navy jumper and a pair of dark-washed jeans. He threads a belt around the waist of these, then pulls out a pair of hiking boots he brought for the occasion and laces them onto his feet. The Belstaff should still suit. He puts his scarf on and turns up the collar. “Should I wear a hat, do you think?” 

John looks over at him and shrugs. “As you like.” 

Sherlock decides against it. “I think I’m ready to go.” 

“Me too. I’ll just nip into the loo.” John does so, then comes out shaking water off his hands and zips up his coat. “Shall we?” 

He leads the way, taking the exit at the end of the breezeway of the north guest wing. Sherlock noticed the bite to the air when they got out of the taxi from the train station already, but it’s even more pronounced now. It is late November, after all, he reminds himself. They’re just lucky it isn’t raining. John sets off down the path and Sherlock follows him, the map tucked into his pocket just in case. 

The valley is lovely indeed, the trees stained golden and copper, a few still green, the darker branches of the pines providing contrast. The sun is shining and there’s a light wind blowing, just cold enough to make Sherlock glad of his gloves and jumper. John didn’t say anything about his jeans. The only other time he’s worn them since their relationship began, John was quite enthusiastic about them. Now, however, he’s just quiet. Too quiet. They’re walking in silence, not a word passing between them, and Sherlock begins to feel it as tension. Why, though? Why should they be tense? They’re here to choose a spot for their engagement photos, as part of planning their wedding. Why should anything be tense? 

After twenty minutes, Sherlock finally cannot take it any longer. “John…” he begins. John doesn’t respond and that definitely feels ominous. He pushes himself to continue. “I wish you would just tell me what’s on your mind,” he says quietly, his eyes on John’s legs as they march away from him. 

John doesn’t break his stride. “What makes you think there’s anything on my mind?” he asks, but the question comes out tighter than he probably intended. 

“Because there _is_. Because there has been for weeks now,” Sherlock insists. 

John puts his hands in his pockets and sighs, but doesn’t stop walking. “You noticed,” he says. “Of course you did. I tried so hard to keep it to myself, but of course you saw it anyway.” 

This is not at all reassuring. “I did, and I kept – trying to ask, trying to bring it up,” Sherlock says, the frustration of the past month or so coming into his voice in spite of himself. “But you kept shutting it down, shutting me out. Insisting that everything was fine, when I could feel that it wasn’t. And still isn’t. I thought… I thought this week, things were better. But then on the train…” 

He stops, and John does not immediately pick up his sentence and finish it. They keep walking, and John sighs again. “I know,” he says, his voice heavy, and the heaviness scares Sherlock. 

“Then – what is it, John?” He knows he sounds plaintive. “What’s wrong? Is it – is it – this?” He feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the wind. “Are you getting cold feet about – marrying me?” 

The bridge is just ahead, with its lookout platform beside it. John goes slowly to the rails, then turns around to face him, and his expression fills Sherlock’s gut with dread. “It’s not you,” John says tightly. “I mean that, Sherlock. It almost has nothing to do with you. It’s me.” 

Panic is rising up and threatening to choke him. “But – what do you mean by that?” Sherlock asks, the question sounding desperate. “How can it not be about me when the problem _is_ this?” 

John shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets and looks down, kicking at a rock half-embedded in the cold ground. “I thought I could work it out on my own,” he says. “I didn’t want you to know what I was thinking. I didn’t want to worry you. Look: I don’t have any doubts about you, all right? It’s me I doubt.” 

He raises his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze and his face is troubled, his eyes pained. “But _why_?” Sherlock repeats. “What about yourself are you doubting? What is it, John? What could it possibly be, after everything we’ve worked through already? What haven’t we talked about?” 

John looks at the ground again, his jaw tight. “I don’t know how to talk about this,” he says in a mix of anger and frustration. “It’s – hard to put it into words.” 

Sherlock feels dangerously close to losing control of his emotions. “Well – _try_ , for God’s sake! If it’s enough to have made you question us getting married, then obviously it’s rather significant!” His voice shakes on the last word and he hates that it does, but his control is only tenuous at best. Everything is falling apart. (The way he always suspected it would, a small voice within his head reminds him.) It was too good to last. John does not want to marry him after all. Despair floods his entire frame. 

But John shakes his head. “It has nothing to do with wanting or not wanting to marry you, Sherlock. I still want to. Of course I do. I love you, or – ”

He stops abruptly, his mouth clamping shut again and he looks off sideways, out over the valley. “Or what?” Sherlock demands. His heart is in his throat. John doesn’t answer, swallowing visibly. Sherlock presses him. “You love me, or – _what_ , John?” 

John pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “What I mean is… what I do is my best approximation of loving you. The best I’m capable of.” His voice sounds dry and hollow. “I mean that I love you to the best of my ability to love anyone, and that’s what I doubt.” 

Sherlock can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “Are you saying that you doubt _your_ ability to love?” 

John nods. 

“That’s – the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard!” Sherlock bursts out. “For God’s sake, John! I’m the one who’s supposed to be a high-functioning sociopath, not you! Where on earth is this coming from? Your ‘best approximation of loving me’ – what the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

John bends over, hands on his knees, as though he’s about to be sick. “I knew it would be a mistake to try talking about this,” he says, his voice muffled. “That’s why I tried so hard not to.” 

Sherlock gesticulates wildly. “What am I supposed to say to that?” he demands, his voice too loud, too upset. “When were you going to tell me? Is this – is this over, then, or – what are you saying, exactly? Give me something concrete, John!” 

John makes a frustrated sound, something like a moan, and Sherlock is torn between wanting to go to him and pull him into his arms, and wanting to shake him until his teeth rattle. “I don’t _know_ ,” John repeats, his voice more pained than ever. “Would you stop – jumping to conclusions, please?” 

Sherlock paces in a full circle, his coat flapping behind him, trying to master his emotional state long enough to attempt basic rationality over this. He stops abruptly. “Can you please try to give me something to reason with?” he requests, his voice coming out evenly at last. “Just – anything, John. Help me understand what’s happening. _Please_.” 

John mumbles something too quiet to be heard. 

Sherlock cocks his ear in John’s direction. “ _What_?” It’s too hard, too rude, but he can’t help it. 

“I can’t do relationships,” John repeats, still bent over and speaking to the ground. 

Sherlock stares at him. Then says, “You’ve _been_ doing one for five months now.” John swallows and doesn’t answer, so Sherlock wracks his mind. “Unless you’re trying to say that it hasn’t been working for you,” he says slowly. Doubt washes backward over the past five months, calling everything into question. “Have you been unhappy all this time?” 

“ _No,_ ” John says forcefully, raising his head at last. “Not in the slightest.” 

Suddenly it’s too much and Sherlock feels dangerously close to crying. He sits down abruptly on the ground, disregarding his coat entirely. “Then I don’t understand,” he says dully. He hates not understanding. 

John sits down, too, his back against the left post of the stone bridge. “I’m utter shit at putting any of this into words,” he says, his voice still strained. “I’m trying, Sherlock. I swear I am. It’s just – hard.” 

“Well, now you’ve made it hard for me, too,” Sherlock responds, unable to look at him. 

“You can ask, and I can try to answer,” John offers, and peripherally Sherlock sees him glance over at him. 

The ground is cold beneath him and the cold seeps upward into his tissues. “Fine,” Sherlock says stiffly. “Has this been a consistent doubt, or has it come and gone?”

John looks confused. “What do you mean by that?” 

The words are difficult to get out and he finds he has to force them. “I mean, every time we were – intimate. Those were the times that made me feel reassured that everything was all right between us. I believed it completely, that we were all right. That you meant it when you said you loved me. Did I read that spectacularly wrong? Were you doubting this even then, when we were – ?” 

“No!” John sounds almost shocked. “ _No_ , Sherlock. Never then. I agree – those were always the times I felt the most sure about this, including this morning. It’s just the other times when the doubt would come back.” 

Sherlock attempts to process this. He plucks a dead leaf from his coat and sets it on the ground beside him. “What do you mean about you and love?” he asks, the question abrupt and bitter in his mouth. “Do you not love me anymore? What did it mean all those times you said it, then?”

John is quiet for a long time, but he’s obviously thinking, struggling to put his thoughts into words. Finally he says, “I meant it… I meant it as much as I’m able – I don’t know how to put this. I just don’t know if I’m capable of it in terms of long-term relationships. I thought I loved my family but they all left me in one way or another and I survived. All those women I dated – I thought I loved one or two of them, but I got over them quickly enough. Even Mary. I thought I loved her once, at least enough to try for a marriage, and look how that turned out. I can’t even say when I stopped. It might have been before she even shot you.” 

Sherlock waits, and when John falls silent again he says, “But that doesn’t have anything to do with – with _us_! I thought we were different. I thought – I thought we were the real thing.” 

John nods. “I do think that. I just… there isn’t much evidence that I have the wherewithal to be what it would take for a long-term relationship. It isn’t that I don’t want that, Sherlock! I just doubt my own ability to be what you would need. What I would need me to be, for that matter. I don’t trust myself not only to be that person; I also don’t trust myself not to be – the was I way to you after Mary died. The way I’ve been to you so many times. You keep turning a blind eye to it, but I see it, Sherlock. I see what I’ve been and done.” 

A sudden suspicion rises in Sherlock’s memory. “Does this have something to do with what Jeremy said at Justin and Thom’s?” he wants to know. “About feeling as though Scott shouldn’t have forgiven him?” 

John’s hesitation gives him away. “You have to admit that you let all of that go very quickly,” he says, his shoulders taking on a mutinous set in anticipation of Sherlock’s response. “Maybe too quickly. All that shit I put you through – I still feel like I don’t deserve this, or that there’s something missing in terms of me making that up to you somehow. I guess that’s a big part of what this is about.” 

Sherlock wants to tear out his hair in frustration. He looks over at John, his mouth falling open a little but entirely at a loss as to what he’s supposed to say to this. “I’m the one who’s meant to be utter rubbish at relationships like this,” he says, his voice coming out heavy. “I’m the one who hasn’t got a shred of experience to compare this to. But unless I’ve severely misunderstood what forgiveness is supposed to be, I think you’re making this vastly more difficult than it needs to be. It feels as though you’re looking for ways to create problems. To get out of this marriage.” John’s face crumples a little but he doesn’t say anything, looking down at his hands. Again, Sherlock’s desire to go to him almost overwhelms him. “Am I wrong?” he asks. His throat hurts. “I’d like to be wrong about that.” 

Suddenly John’s eyes are wet and he touches them with two fingers. “I’d like you to be wrong about that, too,” he says, his voice not quite steady. “I do want to marry you, Sherlock. The day we both proposed is still one of the best days I’ve ever had. That, and the day we first got together at last.” 

Sherlock’s throat closes and his eyes sting. “For me, too,” he manages. “Both those days.”

John wipes his eyes, then gets to his feet and comes over, looking down at Sherlock. “I _do_ love you,” he says roughly. “I love you to the best of my ability, and I absolutely want to marry you. I just – I just wish you were getting something better. Someone less – fucked up. I feel like damaged goods.” 

Sherlock looks up at him, incredulous. “Have you perchance forgotten that whole bit after Mary died and I nearly OD-ed?” he asks, squinting against the sunlight making a halo out of John’s hair in silhouette. “If anyone’s getting damaged goods here, I don’t think it’s me.” 

John laughs suddenly, an abrupt bark of laughter that echoes in the valley. “Come here,” he says, and holds out a hand. Sherlock takes it and lets himself be swung up to his feet. John tugs him by the hand to the centre of the curving bridge, then takes his other hand, too, and speaks, his voice low and fervent. “I wanted to be able to offer you something as solid and beautiful as this bridge. I know that nothing in this life is set in stone, and even stone erodes eventually. But I wanted my end of this deal to – to feel more stable than it does to me right now. But if you still want to marry me, with all of my issues and anger and everything I’ve ever done to you in the past, then I’ll stop being such a bloody idiot and try to stop doubting this whole, crazy venture of ours. I still wake up in the mornings and find myself unable to believe that you could really want me. But if you’re sure you do – ”

“I _am_ sure,” Sherlock interrupts, searching John’s face intently, his eyes devouring him. “Completely, one hundred percent, utterly certain.” 

John swallows, his eyes welling again. “Then I’m all in,” he says, trying to smile. “Doubts and all. It’s all yours, Sher – ”

He doesn’t get any further because Sherlock swoops down and kisses him with unbridled desperation, their mouths open from the start, kissing so deeply that Sherlock thinks he should be capable of drawing an accurate diagram of John’s tonsils. It doesn’t matter. Their arms are around each other, gripping so hard that a stitch or two have already popped in the seams of John’s jacket. They’re pressed together, Sherlock bending a little over John, biting at each other’s mouths, hardly breathing, because this is the only thing in the world that matters. Time stops existing: all that matters is that they’re okay, that they’ve survived this crisis. 

There are three or four clicks and they break apart, startled. “What – ?” John starts, but Kyle’s cheerful voice calls out reassuringly. 

“Sorry! It’s just me!” he says from the lookout. There’s a camera dangling from an apparatus of some sort, hanging out over the ravine. Sherlock could almost reach out and touch it, but it’s about four metres from the railing of the bridge. Kyle retracts the camera and explains. “I thought I heard shouting from up there – voices really carry in here, you know – so I was going to come down and just check that everything was okay, but then it got quiet and I thought maybe everything was fine, so I went back to get this stuff and just test it out before tomorrow. Is everything all right?” 

John’s arms are still around Sherlock and he doesn’t let go entirely. “They are now,” he says. He nods at the camera. “Were you really able to take a photo of us from there like that?” 

Kyle nods. “Let’s see how they turned out,” he says, detaching the camera from its apparatus as they leave the bridge and walk over to him. He presses some buttons, then raises his eyebrows. “Oh, those are gorgeous, if I may say so. Wow – look at that beautiful kiss!” 

He turns the camera and shows them, and Sherlock’s chest seems to contract at seeing it: four rapidly taken photos of them kissing, the camera far enough back to show a wash of autumnal colour behind them, the stone rails of the bridge, and blue sky above. The kiss itself looks as passionate and as meaningful as it felt and it makes Sherlock’s gut twist to see it. He looks at John, who leans into him and squeezes the arm that’s behind his back, and Sherlock puts his lips to John’s temple in spite of Kyle being there. “Those are really beautiful,” John says, a slight catch in his throat. 

Kyle agrees. “Obviously I’ve interrupted something rather important, though,” he says apologetically. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll take myself back up to the office and we can do this properly tomorrow.”

They try a few clumsy reassurances, but the truth is that he did interrupt and everyone knows it. John watches until Kyle is more or less out of earshot, then turns to Sherlock where he’s standing at the lookout. Sherlock holds out his hand and John comes to him and takes it. “Look,” Sherlock says, his voice very intense. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. You know you won’t get perfection from me, either. But we’ll try. That’s all I’m asking, John. That you spend the rest of your life with me, trying to be the people we want to be. I know that being with you makes me a better person. I hope I can have a similar influence on you.” 

“You do,” John says, taking his other hand, too. “You always have. I do know that.” 

Sherlock kisses him, gently this time. “That’s all I want,” he says, a few minutes later. “Meanwhile, I think we should talk this over with Margaret, see what she has to say. All right?” 

“Okay, but when?” John asks. “Does she even work on Saturdays? And what about the photo shoot?” 

“There’s a whole day,” Sherlock reminds him. John looks up into his eyes, his hands still on Sherlock’s waist, then nods. He steps closer and gets his arms around Sherlock’s back, leaning his cheek into Sherlock’s. Sherlock holds him and closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of John’s hair. He feels the railing of the lookout at his back and thinks of what John said about wanting to offer him something set in stone. He turns his lips into John’s hair and kisses it with something akin to reverence. “I love you,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. We’ll work the rest of it out. Just – don’t shut me out, all right?” 

John nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice and arms both tight. “I didn’t mean to make you worry so much. Or make you think that I don’t want this. I do, Sherlock. And I do love you. I mean that.” 

Sherlock savours the words, his eyes still closed, his arms locked around John’s shoulders. “Okay,” he says at last, and John pulls back just enough to kiss him. It last for a long time, unhurried and beautiful, and by the time it’s over, much of the tension has left Sherlock’s shoulders. 

They hike back up to the resort, crossing the bridge and taking the long way around, holding hands and talking a little, sometimes stopping to take pictures on their phones. There’s still over an hour until dinner when they get back, so they fill the jacuzzi in the bathroom, strip off their hiking clothes, and open one of the bottles of champagne. 

John climbs into the tub after Sherlock, settles himself comfortably against one of the jets, then takes the glass Sherlock passes him and sips. “Ahh,” he says, putting it down on the ledge of the tub. “That’s perfect: hot tubs and champagne. Now it really feels like we’re back here.” 

Sherlock lets his legs drift into John’s territory and rubs his ankle against John’s in the water. “Not to mention this part,” he reminds John with a deliberately-exaggerated jut of his eyebrows, and John opens his eyes and smiles. 

“How could I forget?” he asks. He parts his legs and holds out his hands to Sherlock. “Come here.” 

His eyes are at half-mast, his tone gentle and relaxed, and Sherlock moves instinctively toward him, straddling his lap and putting his mouth to John’s. It still hasn’t stopped feeling like a miracle, he thinks. Getting to do this: hold John, kiss him, feel the way his body rises and responds to the proximity of his own, in unashamed, unabashed desire. The kiss stretches out and deepens, Sherlock’s knees clamping around John’s sides to better anchor himself as his own need grows. John’s hands are pressing into his back, holding him close and stroking rhythmically over his skin as they kiss. They’re both getting hard, their erections sliding and rubbing in the warm water. Sherlock thinks about logistics for two seconds, then lifts John bodily out of the tub and onto the ledge. John makes a surprised sound, holding onto Sherlock’s wet hair for balance, and the surprise turns fairly instantly into a moan of pleasure when Sherlock surrounds his penis with the heat of his mouth, his head dipping down to bob in John’s lap. He’s kneeling on the bench of the jacuzzi and the jet is hitting him in the lower belly and, depending on how he moves, his penis, and it feels surprisingly good. He finds himself moaning into John’s flesh, at the satisfaction and need to be doing this for John again, and at the rising pleasure in his own flesh. 

John is breathing heavily, head thrown back, fingers tugging at Sherlock’s hair and moaning encouragements. The water itself has a very light vanilla taste to it, which is certainly preferable to soap, and Sherlock thinks with admiration of how the staff really have thought of everything. He sucks and sucks, listening and feeling as John’s voice and need rise jointly, then pulls back as John’s climax breaks over him, spilling into his mouth in hot pulses of release. Sherlock swallows and swallows again, tongue still cupping the underside of John’s penis, massaging it until he’s completely spent. John opens his eyes, still breathing hard, and says, “ _Thank_ you – that was incredible, Sherlock – now you!” 

“Take your time,” Sherlock tells him, but it comes out almost in a groan – he’s sitting back on his heels now and the jet is hitting him in just the right place. Luckily John – beautiful, perceptive John – hears the sheer need in his voice and responds instantly, slipping back down into the water and reaching for his penis at once. 

“God, you’re hard,” he breathes in overt admiration, and Sherlock makes a noise he can’t control as John’s fist squeezes over him. “What do you want?” John murmurs. “You want me to go down on you, or – ?” 

“No – just your hand – ” Sherlock gets out, then pants hard into John’s skull as John starts stroking him in earnest, his grip wonderfully hard, knowing instinctively how much he needs it. “More – please – ” Sherlock babbles, though it’s already almost overwhelming. 

John gives it to him exactly as he asks, jerking him roughly in the water. “Like that?” His voice is low and sultry, his lips on Sherlock’s ear, and all Sherlock can do is keen in response, every muscle taut, his breath tight in his chest, his erection harder than rock. John goes harder still, then reaches around him and works two fingers into Sherlock’s arse to the second knuckle. With that, Sherlock’s breath stops and he convulses violently in John’s arms, polluting the jacuzzi with several long streams of release. He feels as though he cannot stop coming, as though he hasn’t come for three weeks and now it’s all emptying out of him at once. Finally it’s over and he slumps into John’s arms, panting and weak, and John pulls him in close and holds him as the aftershocks shudder through his frame. 

As they half-sit, half-float there in the aftermath, Sherlock thinks again that he could never bare himself to anyone else this way, never let anyone see him in such a state of need, never trust anyone else with his need, with all of himself at the mercy of anyone but John. “It’s only ever been you, you know,” he murmurs into John’s neck, and somehow John understands what he means, his arms tightening. 

He puts his lips into Sherlock’s wet hair. “For me, too,” he says tightly. “What you said before was completely right: this is the real thing, for the first time in my life. It just had to be you. No one else was ever going to cut it.” 

Sherlock hears himself give a long, shuddering sigh, and puts his head down on John’s, arms tight around his back. It _is_ going to be all right now. Surely John can see that, too. 

*** 

They get dressed nicely for dinner, both of them wearing suits, and sit down at a table in the corner where Todd and Kyle are beckoning. Kirk comes out of the kitchen to serve the bottle of pinot noir they ordered himself, congratulating them on their engagement, and John squeezes Sherlock’s hand under the table. Their salads are served and John turns to Todd. “So, it looks like things are going well around here,” he comments, and Todd nods and smiles. 

“It is, thanks. As you predicted, we got over that hump in publicity pretty smoothly. We’ve hired a few more staff and things are great. Kyle is the Director of Operations – essentially he’s doing his old job and what Lucas used to do together, which has freed me up from some of the administrative stuff. We hired him a better assistant, Will, and he’s taken some of the weight off Kyle’s shoulders, too.” Todd eyes them both. “And you two?” he asks. “This is dinner, not a therapy session, but how are you doing?”

John glances at Sherlock, then says, “Pretty well, all things considered. We, er, hit a bit of a bump, but I think we’re getting past it.” 

Todd considers them both, his blue eyes understanding and gentle as ever. “It’s a quick engagement,” he says. “That can put pressure on things.” 

“Our landlady came just shy of suggesting we postpone and I nearly took her head off for it,” John admits, looking sheepish. “I know it was fast, but we wanted to get married on the anniversary of the day we first met. And we’ve already planned one wedding before, so I suppose we thought it would be easier this time.” 

“Especially given that it’s _our_ wedding this time,” Sherlock puts in, and Todd chuckles. 

“Yes, I would think that that would improve everyone’s enthusiasm,” he agrees. Their meals are served then, distracting them. 

The roast beef is tender and delicious, the Yorkshire pudding perfect, and John’s chicken is exquisite. They eat their fill, talking with Kyle and Todd, and a new sense of contentment comes over Sherlock. As they wait on dessert, Sherlock leans over. “Todd,” he says, “we wondered if there’s any chance we could see Margaret while we’re here. I’m not sure whether she would be available on the weekend, but if there’s any chance at all, we’d really love to see her. Tomorrow or Sunday, whenever she’s free.” 

Todd nods. “She does often come in on Saturdays,” he says. He takes out his phone and pulls up a calendar. “Let me see… she has time tomorrow at half-past two. There was a cancellation. You were going to do your photo shoot, I know, but unfortunately it looks like it may well rain, anyway… you may want to postpone until Sunday sometime. Or head out in the morning. Kyle is technically off tomorrow, so he’s at your service.” 

“Thanks,” John says, before Sherlock can, and there’s definitely relief in his tone. “Like I said, we hit a bit of a bump and we’ve talked it through, but we both think that talking about it with Margaret could help.” 

“She’s marvellous, isn’t she?” Todd says mildly. “I’ve been seeing her myself, just to help process everything that’s happened. Sometimes even the best things can be helped by seeing them through a professional’s eyes.” 

“Speaking of professionals,” Sherlock says, then pauses as their desserts are served. Todd leans back to accept his plate of cake, then looks expectantly back at him. “We’d like to ask you a favour.” 

Todd looks surprised. “Sure,” he says, looking back and forth between them. “Anything.” 

Sherlock puts an arm around John’s back and leans in further still. “Would you officiate our wedding?” he asks. “You know you two are invited anyway, of course. But there’s no one we’d rather have, no one who would make more sense to do it than you.” 

Todd’s face brightens. “I would love that!” he says, sounding pleased. “I’m actually licensed already; I’ve done other weddings, but not many. I would _love_ to do yours!”

John beams at him. “Great, thank you so much!” he says. 

Todd takes out his calendar again. “Let’s find a time to sit down and talk through a few things,” he suggests. “Perhaps Sunday morning? On Sundays we serve brunch at eleven, but for the early birds who are hungry, we also serve a continental breakfast in the courtyard from seven to nine. Do you wake up early? Shall we meet at eight, say? We’ll probably have the place to ourselves.” 

“That sounds fantastic,” Sherlock says, and John echoes him. “Thanks so much.” 

“You really are the best person for it,” John tells him. “You were so very instrumental in getting us together.” 

“And, hopefully, keeping us together,” Sherlock adds. 

“Well, we’ll all do our best and see what happens,” Todd says cheerfully. He nods at the dessert they both ordered, a chocolate cake with hot raspberry sauce drizzled over it and a heart of molten chocolate inside. “Don’t let that get cold. It’s delicious when it’s hot.” 

They take his advice and dig into their cakes with enthusiasm. John takes his hand under the table again and Sherlock’s heart feels as full as his belly. 

*** 

The rain is still spattering the skylights of the spa/therapy wing gently as they approach Margaret’s office the following afternoon. They’re a little early and her office door is still closed. John goes over to a table that has an array of glasses and cups, a pitcher of the spa’s mineral water, and a carafe of hot water next to an assortment of tea bags. “I’m going to have a cup of tea,” John says. “Let me make you one?” 

“All right, but I can make it,” Sherlock says, going over to him. He puts an arm around John’s waist and John turns his face to kiss him briefly. 

“I’d like to. Just tell me what you’d like.” John indicates the choices, so Sherlock bends and examines the offerings. They’re mostly exotic green mixes, all very suitable for a spa. He points to one with the words sencha, elderflower, and jasmine in the description. 

“This one,” he says, and John kisses him again for no particular reason. 

Sherlock feels warmed by it, and despite not wanting to let go, makes himself relinquish his grasp on John so that he can make the tea. John comes over and joins him on the loveseat facing Margaret’s office door, handing him a cup a moment later. “I added a little honey,” he says. 

“Perfect.” Sherlock accepts the cup and Margaret’s office door opens. Two men in their fifties exit, one looking stormy-faced, the other red-eyed and teary. They don’t acknowledge Sherlock and John in any way, making rapidly for the south guest wing. 

Margaret smiles her gentle smile at them. “Gentlemen. How nice to see you. Come on in.” 

They file inside and put themselves on the central loveseat, exactly as they did the last time they were here, but now everything is different. The last time they were here, they weren’t even a couple yet. They had never kissed, never been intimate, never so much as held hands. John must be thinking of this, too, because he reaches for Sherlock’s hand now and threads their fingers together in their customary way. 

Margaret watches this as she settles herself in her own chair facing them, and smiles. “I would say that it seems we’re picking up exactly where we left off, but that’s clearly not the case: congratulations on your engagement!” 

John beams at her and Sherlock finds himself echoing it, partly because he’s pleased, himself, and partly out of gratitude to her for making John look so happy. “Thanks,” John says, crossing his left leg over his right and settling back against the cushions, relaxing tangibly. 

Sherlock cautiously lets his shoulders and back release as well, leaning into John a little. “Thank _you_ ,” Sherlock says. “You were a large part of it.” 

Margaret smiles. “You had a lot of misunderstandings to get past,” she comments mildly. “I’m glad I was able to help facilitate some communication at long last.” 

Sherlock fixes his gaze on her serene face. “Did you know?” he asks abruptly, point-blank. “Did Mycroft tell you that we weren’t really a couple when we came here?” 

He feels John look at him in surprise, but Margaret’s reaction is the one that interests him. She smiles again. “He gave me quite a lot of information about the two of you, but didn’t specifically mention that, which made me think that perhaps you weren’t,” Margaret says. “However… you _were_ already a couple. One whose full potential hadn’t yet come to fruition, but you had greater and deeper problems than two friends would have. You had the problems of two people who, very clearly, at least to me, loved each other deeply but couldn’t seem to see the way forward. It was clear to me that John already loved you when he decided to marry Mary. It was clear to me that you already loved John when you found yourself obliged to falsify your death in front of him. If anything, not having realised your physical, romantic relationship yet would have only made these wounds deeper, as far as I see it. You both thought you were the only one who felt that way, that your love had to be buried and suffocated on top of everything else circumstances had you suffering. So, yes, I ‘knew’, and it also made no difference, because you were very much experiencing the issues of two people in a relationship, with deeper traumas than the majority of couples who come to us here. The official status never changed anything as far as my approach to working with you went. How’s that for an answer?” 

Her eyes twinkle a little, and Sherlock finds himself reluctantly smiling. “You’re good,” he acknowledges. 

“It’s my job,” Margaret replies. She sits back and takes off her glasses, letting them hang from the cord around her neck. She clasps her hands around her right knee where it’s crossed over her left. “So what brings you what to my office, specifically?” she asks. “Are you experiencing difficulties with your engagement?” 

John takes a breath, so Sherlock defers to him, turning to him slightly. “Do you think we did this too fast?” he asks. “The engagement? It was only three weeks after we first got together – which was right after our last session with you, in fact.” 

Margaret shakes her head slightly. “Everyone relationship is unique,” she says. “It’s not up to me to say what’s ‘right’ for the pacing of yours. Are you asking because you feel it was too fast?” 

John gives a tight smile, lips clamped together, and raises a finger on the hand that’s not holding Sherlock’s. “I see what you’re doing there,” he says. 

“It’s not a trick question,” Margaret assures him. “I’m asking because the questions people ask me are often the questions they’re asking themselves. What’s the real question behind that one?” 

John exhales heavily, bows his head for a moment as he collects his thoughts, then says, “That’s the million-pound question, isn’t it? What’s my real question? What’s my problem?” 

Margaret glances at Sherlock. He clears his throat, then says, “We’ve been having a bit of a communication problem lately. John’s been… getting withdrawn and I haven’t known how to deal with it. We had a – a bit of a crisis yesterday afternoon and worked through some of it, but the gist seems to be that he feels a bit of doubt about himself, given some of what’s happened in our own relationship in the past, and also the, er, failures of several previous relationships.” He turns in toward John. “Is that all right? That I said that?” 

John looks at him and nods, smiling. “Yeah. Thanks.” He turns back to Margaret and attempts to explain. “I find it really difficult, putting this sort of stuff into words,” he says. 

“It’s nothing to apologise for,” Margaret says, unmoved. “And if we’re talking about failed relationships, remember that most of us come through life leaving a trail of those behind us. It’s the way of life. Not every relationship is meant to go the distance. In fact, the majority _aren’t_. Instead of seeing things as having ‘failed’, perhaps it would be beneficial to think rather that they simply came to the end of their timeline within your life.” 

John snorts a little. “Aided and abetted by me,” he says. 

Sherlock leans into him. “If we’re talking about your former girlfriends, then me too,” he reminds John easily, his tone light, and that actually makes John laugh. 

“That’s true enough,” he says dryly. Then, to Margaret, “Yeah. All right. That does help a little. But still… I’m troubled by my own history and afraid of repeating it, afraid of sabotaging the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

“Ah,” Margaret says with a smile. “The classic: fear of success.” 

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” John retorts, a mutinous look on his face. “I think there’s grist for real concern in this case.” 

Margaret accepts this, unruffled. “All right,” she says. “What about this theory: are you finding it difficult to accept that Sherlock has forgiven you for any or all of that because you have difficulty forgiving yourself? Could that be it?” 

John seems to be breathing with difficulty, face turned down toward his knees. After a moment, he nods. “Yes,” he says heavily. He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock’s and grips his own hands. “Very much so.” 

Sherlock feels the loss immediately and keenly. “But why?” he asks. “What about everything I put you through?” 

John shakes his head. “It’s not – it doesn’t balance out when you compare everything you’ve done for me, including what you were doing for me in making me think you were dead. It just doesn’t, Sherlock. We discussed this.” 

“Yes, and I believe I said ‘fuck the balance’ at the time,” Sherlock reminds him, his abdominal muscles clenching in spite of the reassurance of the previous night. 

John reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you were wrong. Maybe it can’t be fucked. Or ignored. Maybe that’s not in your power to do for us.” 

“Well, not if you won’t let it go,” Sherlock says, a bit more sharply than he meant to. 

“How to let things go,” Margaret says, inserting herself gently. “It’s so difficult, isn’t it? And on top of that, the fear of success bit is a real thing, even if it sounds like a cliché to you. We self-sabotage out of fear that this thing that we wanted, that we’re happy about, is about to fall apart, so we try to engineer the way it falls apart ourselves so that at least it’s in our control.”

John looks up at her, opens his mouth, pauses, then says, “It sounds so stupid when you put it that way… but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.” 

“As I said yesterday, I don’t mind any of what’s past,” Sherlock reminds him, wanting to touch him but afraid that it’s too soon. “I don’t mind if you feel we need to talk about it again. I just mind you shutting me out of it.” 

John looks down at his hands again. Margaret prompts him gently. “John? Would you address that? Why do you shut Sherlock out?” 

He sniffs, then says, “When I do… those are always the times when I feel like he deserves better, that I’m the last person he should be with. Our landlady… she’s wonderful, but also a bit tactless sometimes, and she’ll just make an offhand reference about how Mary shot Sherlock or something and I’ll just start the downward spiral again, thinking that I was responsible for that, that I was the one who brought Mary into our lives. That sort of thing.” 

“But that’s ridiculous,” Sherlock says, anger stirring. “You _aren’t_ responsible for anything Mary did! We’ve talked about what you were and weren’t responsible for, and I’ve forgiven the other things. Mary shooting me was not your fault! But if you’d just said something at the time, instead of hiding it, I never would have started worrying about this.” 

John glances at him and their eyes meet. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he says, the lines deepening around his eyes. “I just thought I should try to get my head around it my own way.” 

“But you do that all the time, and – I’m sorry John, but I don’t think it works,” Sherlock says. “You never tell me when something is bothering you. I’d rather know what it is, at least, even if I don’t have anything helpful to say about it. If you’d said – I remember that day, when Mrs Hudson mentioned Mary and the shot – and if you’d told me that night, I would have reminded you that I’ve never once held you responsible for that bullet.” He lets his voice soften a shade. “And that it doesn’t change the way I feel about you, or how very much I want to marry you.” 

John looks at him, his eyes bright, and he swallows, seeming unable to speak. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand again and Sherlock takes it and squeezes. 

Margaret takes a sip of her water, which reminds Sherlock of his tea. He reaches for it and sips just as she asks, “What else do you bottle up about, John?”

John smiles and shakes his head. “What don’t I, is a better question,” he says, and sighs. “Everything, I guess.” 

“You never talk about Rosie,” Sherlock says very quietly, stroking his thumb over John’s knuckle. “I don’t bring her up because I don’t want to remind you or make it hurt all the more. But it’s odd that we never talk about her.” 

John swallows.

Margaret watches him. “Rosie was your daughter?” she asks softly, and John nods. 

“She died in an accident,” he says, his voice bleak. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But – again – I had done so many things wrong in our relationship. I wasn’t there for her when she lost her mother. I wasn’t even there for her before that. And worse, I never really wanted her. I loved her – but I saw her as a symbol of something that kept me tied to Mary, tied to that disastrous life choice, something that kept me away from Sherlock and being where I really wanted to be, with the person I really wanted to be with.” 

“Of course you felt guilty, then,” Margaret says, her voice full of understanding. “That’s completely understandable. Do you have trouble keeping those feelings apart from any guilt related to the fact that she died?” 

John hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I know it wasn’t my fault. Her death, at least. But it makes me wish I’d done better before that.” 

“We none of us ever know how much time we’re going to get with the people we love,” Margaret reminds him, her eyes very compassionate. “And once it’s gone, there’s nothing we can do to make reparations. We only have what’s here and now.” 

“I know that,” John says. His eyes are a bit wet but his voice is controlled. He looks up across at Margaret. “But you see, don’t you: it’s another case where I just didn’t love enough. Yesterday I told Sherlock that I felt like I’m not capable of love the way other people are, that I just can’t give enough back.” 

Margaret frowns a little. “Do you really believe that? Or is this fear of loving too much and losing? They’re quite often one and the same.” 

John blinks. “I’ve… I never thought of it that way,” he says, in a different tone. “Are they really?” 

Margaret nods. “Absolutely. Especially in people who have lost a lot, who have reason to fear putting their trust in other people. Have you ever been told or found that you have some problems with trust?” 

“All the bloody time,” John says, his mouth twisting. “So you think that because I’ve been hurt before, I’m just afraid to let myself love as much as I should and want to because I’m afraid I’ll lose this, too.” 

Margaret shrugs a little. “It could well be,” she says. She looks at Sherlock, then back at John. “Let me shift things slightly: how is your sex life?” 

John relaxes a little and leans back into Sherlock. “Great. Fantastic.” 

Margaret looks at Sherlock and he corroborates. “Yes. Absolutely.” 

“No problems there?” she asks, and they both demur, shaking their heads. Margaret lifts her eyebrows. “You may be one of the only couples I’ve ever had say that,” she comments mildly. “Tell me a little more: do you follow an established top/bottom relationship? Is penetrative sex something you do?” 

John has been talking all this while, so Sherlock clears his throat and pipes up. “No, and yes,” he says. “John tops more frequently than I do, but it’s not at all a set pattern. We both like it both ways. Frankly, we haven’t tried anything yet that we haven’t liked. There are no problems with that. I would say that our relationship is at its least problematic when we’re in bed.” 

Margaret smiles. “That’s excellent news,” she says. “If the physical aspect of your relationship is working well, then most of the rest of it should fall into place. Do you both feel that it’s a reciprocal relationship? It’s balanced in terms of who gives and receives, et cetera?” 

John agrees at the same time as Sherlock, who adds, “John is a phenomenal and generous lover. He would never leave me… feeling neglected.” 

“Except the other night,” John says, a touch ruefully. “I tried to make up for it in the morning, though.” 

“You did,” Sherlock assures him. He hesitates, and Margaret catches it. 

“What is it?” she probes. 

“Well – my only – sometimes I feel that John tries to fix our issues with sex rather than communicating what’s on his mind,” Sherlock says. “It’s not a complaint per se, but sometimes I feel he uses it as an evasion mechanism.” 

John gives him a wry smile. “You caught that, did you?” 

Margaret shakes her head, smiling. “That is a _classic_ evasion tactic, John! Sherlock is right to call you out on it! The idea is: talk first, sex after. Not sex instead!” 

John looks slightly sheepish. “Right, yeah,” he says. “I’ll try. I promise I’ll try to do better at the talking thing.” 

Sherlock looks at him and thinks that if he loved John any more, it would come leaking through his skin, welling up out his very pores. “And the other part?” he asks, his voice a bit tight. “Can you try to trust – this? I don’t trust myself – but I trust this. I trust _us_. As we said yesterday – it was always you, John. This was always meant to happen, I think.” 

John looks at him, his eyes dark and hopeful at the same time. “I thought you didn’t believe in stuff like destiny or things being ‘meant to be’,” he says, his voice rough. 

Sherlock swallows and looks him unblinkingly in the eye. “I didn’t until I met you.”

John stares at him for a moment, his eyes bracketed with intense emotion, then suddenly he seizes Sherlock’s face and kisses him. Sherlock kisses back, not caring a fig for Margaret’s presence, and feels relief wash through him dizzily. John releases him after a moment, then immediately apologises to Margaret. “Sorry! But I couldn’t not, not after that!” He’s still touching Sherlock’s face. “Do you know, I think we’re going to be fine now,” he says. “Thank you – you’ve shown me exactly what I needed to see.” 

He gets to his feet, pulling Sherlock up with him. Sherlock can’t keep his hands off John, needing to pull him back into his arms. He resists the urge to do so, but his hands are still on John nonetheless. He looks at Margaret. “I think we’re good for today,” he says, and she laughs. 

“I would say so! Go on, get out of here, and the best to you both,” she says, waving them off, and John takes Sherlock by the hand and they all but run back to their room. 

“We have to invite her to the wedding,” John says, as Sherlock fumbles for his key card. “ _Hurry_ , Sherlock!” 

“She’s already on the list!” Sherlock swipes his card forcefully and pushes the door open, and John doesn’t even wait for it to close before his mouth is on Sherlock’s, unable to wait a moment longer. It’s sheer relief, Sherlock knows, relief that they didn’t screw this up before it even got off the ground, but that doesn’t matter. They’re swaying together, arms locked around each other’s backs, kissing as though the world is about to end. John _does_ love him – loves him so much that he’s afraid to let himself, which is a very different thing than not loving him enough, as Sherlock feared. As they both feared. John wants this so much that he’s as afraid of losing it as Sherlock is. Now that they both know this, everything is going to be fine. John will learn to trust him again, eventually. Sherlock will simply have to make himself worth trusting. No more forgetting even the small things. The biggest, best thing that’s ever happened to him is right here in his arms, and that’s worth paying every scrap of his attention to. 

*** 

The rest of the weekend is glorious. They attend the ball on Saturday, sitting with the staff but mostly keeping to themselves as they eat their way through Kirk’s enormous feast, then dance until they’re the only ones left on the floor. Sunday morning dawns early, and Todd was right in thinking that they would have the courtyard to themselves. A server comes out from the kitchen to ask what they’d like. No menus are on the white-painted wrought-iron table; it’s evidently an open-ended question. They order croissants and bacon and cappuccinos and it comes served with butter and an assortment of jams and wildflower honey. They talk through the wedding with Todd, discussing what they’d like to do for the ceremony and reception both. He suggests Kyle as their MC and they immediately agree. He asks them about the vows, the music, the location, what they’re going to wear, and effortlessly helps them finish planning the things they hadn’t even thought of yet. 

By ten the sun is shining and Kyle appears, bending to kiss Todd, then announcing the good weather with great enthusiasm, so they set off into the valley to do the photo shoot. When Kyle is satisfied that they have enough good shots to choose from, the three of them go back to his office and narrow down the selections. They choose eight in the end, but their favourite is still the one Kyle surprised them in on Friday afternoon, and they decide to put it on the very final page of the album. 

They catch the tail end of brunch, then go back to the room to have a short nap before their massage, which is wonderful in every way. Roberto and Alex are barely out of the room before Sherlock says, his face still muffled, “Get over here and get in me, now!” John obliges at once, reaching for a palmful of oil to rub over Sherlock’s entrance and then himself before climbing onto Sherlock and sliding into him in a tight, slow, perfect fit, their bodies coming together like puzzle pieces, fucking him so hard that the massage table nearly collapses beneath them. John comes first with a gasp of apology, then pulls Sherlock up onto his knees and keeps going as hard as he’s able, using both hands to jerk him off. Aided by the slick of the oil on his hands, it’s only a few moments until Sherlock is stiffening and shouting out, coming so hard that the first shot lands somewhere on the floor, clearing the massage table entirely. John keeps rubbing him until his testicles are entirely spent, his fingers covered in Sherlock’s release, his own penis just beginning to soften within Sherlock. It’s phenomenal and Sherlock’s legs are so rubbery that John picks him up and carries him into the hot tub afterward, Sherlock giggling feebly but loving it, refusing to let go once they’re in the water. He floats with his arms around John’s neck, kissing him with a sense that time has ceased to exist, and John holds him just as tightly back and doesn’t stop kissing him and that’s all that matters. They didn’t order wine this time, but Kyle nonetheless sent in an ice bucket with a sparkling rosé moscato that’s delicious and refreshing in the heat of the tub, and they drink the entire bottle there and then. 

Dinner Sunday night is a quiet affair, mostly staff, as the majority of the guests have gone home and the next batch won’t arrive until Monday morning. Kirk makes two kinds of lasagna, the traditional, and an eggplant and ricotta wonder which is far and away everyone’s favourite, and serves it with a boisterous, fruity white wine of his own choosing. There are only two tables of people there, as many of the staff go home for the weekends, too, and the meal is congenial and friendly. Over cherry cheesecake and espresso, Todd confirms a few details. “You’re staying tonight, right?” he asks, once the wedding talk is dealt with. “Then I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t go without saying goodbye!” 

“We won’t,” Sherlock promises. “We’ll get an early start, though, get out of your hair before the next group arrives.” 

“That’s not an issue,” Todd says, smiling. “Have a good last night. It’s been great having the two of you back up here.” 

They spend their last night sitting up in front of the fire in the dressing gowns provided in the bathroom, sipping champagne and just relaxing, content in every way possible. “It feels a bit like everything would be perfect if we could just stay here forever,” John admits after a little. 

Sherlock allows that he was thinking the same thing. “But on the whole, we’re doing pretty well out there, in the real world, I think. It’s only been these little – cold pockets, if you will. But we’re not going to have those anymore. And if we do, I’ll understand why. I was genuinely afraid that you were getting cold feet. You scared me there.” 

John shakes his head a little and leans into the curve of Sherlock’s arm all the more. “I didn’t understand it, myself, because the one thing I was always sure about was that – that I absolutely do want to marry you. Thank God for Margaret. I understand it now.” 

Sherlock puts his lips into John’s hair and kisses his head. “So do I,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. Trust isn’t something rational, and when it’s been broken, earning it back is not easy. But I mean to make myself trustworthy, John. To you, if no one else. There is no one in the world who matters to me the way you matter. I would do anything to make myself someone you can trust again. I understand that it’s not something that can happen overnight. But as long as you love me, I can live with that.” 

“The truth is, now that I can see it for what it is, is that I love you more than it feels one person should let himself love another,” John says tightly. He reaches for the hand that’s sitting in Sherlock’s lap and twines all ten of his fingers into Sherlock’s. “I suppose those are my trust issues speaking, the ones that tell me that letting yourself go and just falling as deeply as it goes is dangerous. Sometimes I think that I’ve already fallen too far, that I would never recover if something happened and you changed your mind. The fact is that I already passed that point years ago. I’m trying to just – let myself keep falling, because I haven’t reached the limit yet. Of how much I love you.” 

Sherlock puts his other arm around John now, too, his face still turned into John’s soft hair. “I will never change my mind,” he says tightly. “ _Never_ , John. I will love you as long as I am drawing breath. And I plan on standing up in front of our hundred and thirty-three guests to promise you that in public, with witnesses. That’s how sure I am.” 

John leans away just far enough to set his champagne flute down on the table beside the loveseat, then turns to Sherlock with glassy eyes. “I love you,” he says, his voice both sober and tremulous. He puts a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, thumb stroking over the angle of Sherlock’s cheekbone, then kisses him slowly, deeply, in a way that resonates into every fibre of Sherlock’s being. It feels like a momentously important kiss, a kiss that says that they have crossed a certain threshold that will never need to be retaken. 

After a little while, they get up jointly and move to the bed, pulling off their dressing gowns and tumbling down onto the covers together, using the remote controls to shut off the lights and the fire. They move together, kissing all the while, bodies fitting back together in warm, familiar, need-driven intimacy, moving together, their pleasure twining and becoming one need, one insistent, rising, spiking pulse of climax, and then it’s all breath, bodies heaving, hands stroking hair off sweaty foreheads, legs shaking as the aftershocks shiver through both their frames, arms around each other as they fall asleep. 

The next thing Sherlock knows, there is sunlight falling across his face and his alarm is sounding. John’s arm is curled over his chest, his breath warm on Sherlock’s jaw. Monday morning has come. It’s time to go home. 

*** 

Mrs Hudson is delighted to see them. Moreover, she’s astonished and thrilled by how much progress they’ve made on wedding planning, which was part of the plan they concocted on the train on the way home. It goes without saying that she will not be told of how close to disaster they came. All that matters is that they came home vastly stronger than they were when they left. She notices their happiness and is delighted by it, and when they throw themselves immediately into planning the engagement/holiday party in two weeks’ time, she’s full of suggestions about decorations and baking. Sherlock puts her in charge of the former, with a warning to keep it tasteful and within reason. “No blinking lights,” he warns, and she hoots at this and waves him off. 

They secure a suit-fitting appointment, taste meals and cakes, and meet with the events planner at their reception venue to discuss the finer points of table settings and electronic needs, and they don’t argue once. Sherlock finds himself relishing these tasks with triumph. Last time, it was he who booked all of the appointments, then sent Mary and an increasingly reluctant John off to complete them. This time it’s different, and John is as enthusiastic as he is. They go to their meal tasting a week after their return. John leans a little toward a cheaper meal option, but it’s his natural instinct. Sherlock suggests they splurge on the prime rib, pointing out mildly that he hopes very much that it will be the last wedding either of them pays for, and John wavers. “Technically, you’re the one paying for it,” he says, but there’s no prickliness behind his tone. 

“We have joint accounts,” Sherlock reminds him. “It’s all one now.” 

John gives him a look to show that he’s still aware that Sherlock brought considerably more to said accounts than he did, but it comes with a smile. “If you want to, then. Sure. Let’s get the prime rib. It was delicious. And my favourite, too.” 

Sherlock smiles. “That alone is reason to get it, then,” he says, bending to kiss John’s cheek, and John smiles back and kisses him properly, on the lips, right there in the atrium of the venue. 

The holiday/engagement party arrives, their biggest yet. They invited around forty people and all of them come, many with romantic hangers-on. Sherlock does his best to smile and be a proper host, though it’s not as hard as he was privately dreading, given that he likes the majority of the people there. They invited their group from Ravine Valley, who all come, as well as Todd, Kyle, and Margaret, plus Lestrade and the officers they prefer from the Met, Molly, who comes with her newish husband, and some of John’s pre-war days friends. Nevertheless, it’s a relief when John pulls him into the bedroom and over to the window sill to catch a moment of privacy amid the noise. He sits Sherlock down and leans over to kiss him for a long moment. He tastes like red wine and Sherlock doesn’t resist it. 

“What’s this?” he asks, unbothered but curious. “What brought that on?” 

John smiles at him, a beautiful, gentle smile. “Nothing,” he says. “You’ve been handling this whole thing so well, being so nice to everyone. I just saw you standing there, enduring Molly blathering on about something and suddenly I just needed to kiss you. And I thought perhaps you could do with a tiny break from the chaos, too.” 

Sherlock finds himself touched by John’s perception, as well as warmed by what he said about watching him that way. He nudges his nose into John’s and says, “Do you know, I still get a bit jealous of you talking to literally anyone. I don’t want you to stop, obviously. But I still feel it.” 

He sees the pride flair momentarily in John’s eyes and is pleased. “I love that,” John admits, his voice low, eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s mouth and back up to his eyes. “But I’m all yours. You know that. And later, when everyone’s gone, I’m going to make sure you can feel that in a tangible, physical way. Just in case you need reminding.”

Their lips are almost touching. Sherlock hears himself laugh, his voice low and admittedly aroused-sounding. “Does that mean I’m topping or bottoming tonight?” 

John brushes his mouth over Sherlock’s. “Whichever will make you feel that more,” he murmurs, and Sherlock gives in and kisses him again. It’s deep and sensual and the distant noise of the party fades. After several minutes of it, he makes himself reluctantly pull away. 

“I suppose we shouldn’t neglect our guests,” he says, and John agrees. Sherlock holds out a hand to him. “Come on.” 

They go back out to the sitting room and find a conversation to join, with Thom, Jeremy, and Lestrade. A little later, Sherlock finds himself in the kitchen refilling someone’s glass when Margaret slips in and joins him. They exchange the usual pleasantries – he thanks her for coming; she compliments him on the party – then she asks if he can spare a moment to have a quick word. 

“Certainly,” Sherlock says. “I just need to deliver this to someone.” John comes into the kitchen as he’s speaking and raises his eyebrows in question and already holding out his hand for the glass, so Sherlock says, “Give that to Thom, would you?” 

“Absolutely,” John says amiably and relieves Sherlock of the small task. 

There are other people in the kitchen, so Sherlock nods toward the stairwell out in the corridor. “Follow me,” he directs Margaret. He lets her go first up the stairs to John’s old bedroom and they sit down just below the landing, Margaret several steps above him. Sherlock sits down sideways on a step and arranges his long legs as comfortably as he can. “So what’s on your mind?” he asks. 

Margaret laughs. “I’m usually the one who asks that question,” she says. “I just wanted to ask you how it’s been going. Have things improved since your crisis point a couple of weeks ago?” 

Sherlock nods. “Definitely,” he says. “It’s only been a couple of weeks, but he’s stopped withdrawing, at least for now. But if he does it again, I’ll understand why. That helps.” 

“Good,” Margaret says, sounding pleased. “I agree; not understanding why something is happening is often as bad or worse than the problem causing it. Doubly so for someone like you, I should think.” 

Sherlock smiles, more to himself than to her. “Yes.” 

“How are the wedding plans going?” Margaret inquires. 

“Very well,” Sherlock says. “We’ve got almost everything settled, I think. We just booked our honeymoon yesterday, to Bora Bora.” 

Her eyebrows arch. “That sounds phenomenal. How did you choose there?” 

“We talked about what sort of place we’d both like to go – city, country, beach, warm, temperate, all that. We both wanted to go somewhere tropical, especially since we’re getting married in January, so looked at photographs of dozens of places and Bora Bora won out. We’re staying in a hut out over the water with a glass floor and have our own boat to use for the two weeks.” Sherlock shakes his head. “It sounds like I’m talking about someone else’s life.” 

“But it _is_ your life now,” Margaret reminds him gently, smiling. “It sounds wonderful, and you do get to believe that it’s real. It is. You get to keep that fairy tale ending from your stay at Ravine Valley. This is here to stay.” 

Sherlock nods and tries to make himself believe this. “Right,” he says. “But if I want to keep him… I know that I broke his trust on multiple occasions. Even understanding why in his head won’t negate that. I’m well aware of that. But what do I do to make myself trustworthy again? How to I help him feel that he can let down his walls with me? What do I do?” 

Margaret makes a thoughtful sound. “I suspect it’s much more something you do by not doing,” she says. “By not breaking it any further, I mean. You’re very right about the nature of trust: it operates on an instinctive level rather than a rational one, and the breaking of it compounds itself, so that every repeated offence solidifies the initial reasons to have stopped trusting. Make yourself utterly reliable in the small things. Start there. If John asks you to pick something up at the store, make completely sure that you don’t forget. Don’t be late for previously-discussed plans. Any chance you get is a chance to rebuild it. And show him that you trust him, too. That will help.” 

Sherlock absorbs this and nods. “But what about the big things?” he asks, looking up at her. “How do I persuade him that he can – confide in me? About the loss of his daughter, for one. About all that stuff he just doesn’t talk about. His family. Even Mary. It’s not that I particularly want to talk about any of it; I just want him to feel than he can if he wants to, that I _want_ us to really become a unit, that he doesn’t have to carry all of that stuff on his own anymore. You’ve talked to him; you’ve seen how stubborn he can be. Throwing questions back to your questions, trying to figure out your game. He still does that even with me. How do I convince him that I’m not an invading army and that he can let me in on those things, let me be with him in it all?” 

“That will come,” Margaret assures him. “I think that all of that will come. But it takes time.” 

“Right.” Sherlock falls silent, lost in thought. 

Margaret stirs. “What about his daughter, though? How long has it been since her death? It was rather recent, wasn’t it?” 

Sherlock nods again. “Less than a year,” he says soberly. “It happened just after her second birthday. Her birthday is the twelfth of January. The accident happened on the fifteenth.”

“So the one-year anniversary is coming up,” Margaret says. “And so soon before your wedding.” 

“Two weeks.” Sherlock grimaces a little. “I haven’t forgotten about that.” 

“Why did you plan the wedding so close?” she asks. 

“It’s the anniversary of the day we met,” Sherlock explains. “But neither of us mentioned Rosie when we planned the date, and that kind of omission is exactly what I mean. I don’t feel I can bring it up if John doesn’t, and he doesn’t, so we’re left with this unspoken spectre hanging between us.” 

Margaret touches his shoulder. “I think you can help him with that,” she says. “Think about her birthday. Perhaps you could do something around that.” 

“I was sort of thinking along those lines,” Sherlock says cautiously. “I wasn’t sure, though… I’ll give that some thought.” 

Margaret gives his shoulder a pat now. “Do that,” she says. “Trust your instincts. I know it isn’t easy when you’re used to relying on reason and rationale, but learn to listen to that inner voice. I think it will serve you well, if you’re considering things from John’s perspective and acting out of love. Thanks for the update. I didn’t mean to take you out of your party.” 

“Not a problem,” Sherlock says, getting to his feet and helping her up. “Crowd scenes aren’t really my thing.” 

“Says the life of the party himself,” Margaret returns, her eyes twinkling. “Go on, get back to your guests. I’m going to head out, but thanks for inviting me. I’ll be back down for the wedding, of course.” 

“Do you need a taxi?” Sherlock asks, but Margaret brushes him off. 

“I’ll find one. You stay up here,” she says. “Go back to John – he’ll be looking for you by now.” 

Sherlock glances into the sitting room and sees John at once, sees the slight anxiety around his eyes that relaxes as soon as they make eye contact, and he feels his chest tighten a little, very much wanting to do precisely as instructed. “All right, then,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek. “See you soon. And thank you.” 

“Anytime.” Margaret buttons her long coat and waves over her shoulder as she goes down to flag down a taxi. 

Sherlock turns back to the party, stopping in the doorway for a moment to take stock of the entire situation. _My fiancé_ , he thinks, looking at John and tasting the words in his mouth as though they’re still brand new and unknown. He sees Scott and Kyle talking to a judge they know from a particularly vicious murder trial last year, sees Todd and Jeremy having a quiet, serious conversation in the corner by their Christmas tree, sees Molly and her husband looking through the engagement photo album with Mrs Hudson pointing over their shoulders, sees Harry Watson and her current girlfriend talking to Brad and Doug, Harry miming a basketball shot as the four of them talk animatedly. These people aren’t just his friends and colleagues; he thinks. Now he gets to put the gloss of couplehood to all of these terms: _our_ friends, _our_ house, _our_ party. Our wedding. His eyes fall on John again. John is actually going to marry him. Amazing. How incredulous. He catches the glint of platinum on John’s fourth finger, and suddenly it’s not enough to observe him only. He shoulders his way through the crowd until he’s there, close enough to breathe in the scent of John’s skin, take his hand and feel their identical rings clink together, feel the warmth of John at his side. He catches Mrs Hudson’s eye and nods at her. She wants to do toasts and that, and suddenly Sherlock doesn’t mind the flat being filled with people. He squeezes John’s hand and settles himself against him. Let the party go on all night if it wants. 

*** 

He plans for Rosie’s third birthday with care. 

Sherlock makes what arrangements he can in advance. It’s surprisingly easy, given that they’re already planning a large event. They had a quiet Christmas, spending the twenty-third through twenty-sixth with Sherlock’s parents. Mycroft came for the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth only, but was surprisingly well-behaved throughout. Sherlock and John went snowshoeing with Sherlock’s father and all five of them went skating on Christmas Day in the nearby town square, even Mycroft, and later they trooped back inside to the warmth of the fire and hot chocolate laced with liqueur and exchanged gifts. Because of the wedding, Sherlock and John had said they would keep to a strict fifty-pound budget. Sherlock bought John two new jumpers (one navy cashmere, one in finely-knit burgundy wool) and a watch, exceeding the budget by at least twenty pounds, but John didn’t scold him over it. John gave him a shirt in a deep pine green, so dark it’s nearly black, and a newly-released book on the latest discoveries in forensic science that Sherlock had seen in a bookshop one day and exclaimed over, plus tickets to see a rather good violinist play a lot of music that Sherlock particularly likes. John must have reached the budget limit on the tickets alone, but Sherlock circumspectly kept his mouth shut about this observation in turn. 

After Christmas, they came home and fell back into what are now impending wedding plans. Sherlock stopped taking cases in November and John still hasn’t returned to any clinic, so they’re at home a good deal. Nevertheless, Sherlock manages to make his arrangements without John noticing. On the eleventh of January over breakfast, Sherlock asks casually if John has any plans for the following evening. John reminds him that they’re going for a suit fitting in the afternoon, which Sherlock acknowledges and says he hadn’t forgotten. John then concedes that the evening seems to be open. 

“Good,” Sherlock says, turning a page of the paper. “I thought we could order in.” 

John shrugs and smiles. “Sure. Whatever you like. Are we still on for sushi with Andrew and Avi tonight?” 

“Yes. Eight o’clock at Nagoya, they said,” Sherlock confirms. So that’s settled. They go to their fitting the following afternoon. It’s meant to be the final one, and it is: their suits fit perfectly. Sherlock suggested a slightly tighter tailoring in the leg for John and the result is spectacular. The trousers hug John’s slender thighs and make his legs look longer, which even John admits when the tailors point this out. Sherlock comes out of his dressing room to see, and shakes his head, crossing his arms. 

John catches this. “What?” he asks, standing on the step in the middle of the room and attempting to adjust his bow tie. 

“You look phenomenal,” Sherlock says, not masking his admiration. “Are you really going to marry me?” 

John’s peal of laughter stems from both surprise and delight at what’s now become a running joke, rather than a worrisome and very real question. “Idiot,” he says fondly. “Speak for yourself – I’m going to have to hire security just to keep everyone off you.” 

Sherlock smiles, a long, slow smile, and John gets off the step and comes over to him, hands reaching out to touch him, travelling over the slim lines of the morning suit.

“I love this on you,” he says. “I’m glad that we decided to just wear regular morning suits and only theme the corsages. White suits would have been beyond corny.” 

“We’ll have winter-themed décor too, don’t forget,” Sherlock says, fixing John’s tie for him. “We didn’t want to hammer the point home too hard.” 

“Mr Holmes, if you’re ready, we’re ready for you,” one of the tailors says, so John kisses him quickly and lets him go. 

Sherlock waits patiently as the tailors fuss and check seams and lengths and converse with each other. He is far more aware of John’s eyes on him when he emerges from his dressing room again, his eyes full of some unidentifiable emotion, bracketed almost in pain. When Sherlock meets his gaze, however, John smiles and swallows visibly. After, once Sherlock has changed and they’ve been dismissed, Sherlock turns to him on their way out of the shop. “You all right?” he asks, keeping his voice down. 

John nods quickly. “Yeah.” He finds Sherlock’s hand and fits their fingers together in their usual way, squeezing. “I’m just – I’m so glad you’re actually going to marry me. For real, Sherlock. I’m not – I know we joke about it, but I’m not this time. I’m genuinely blown away that you still want to. And grateful that you do.”

Sherlock smiles and shoulders his way through the door, then pulls John into his arms there on the pavement and kisses him. “So am I,” he says after, his voice low. “I’m so glad it’s almost painful. Now let’s go home. I have a small something planned. I hope it’s all right.” 

John looks at him quizzically, but Sherlock busies himself with flagging down a taxi and manages to evade this. They’re only a short way from Baker Street, so John doesn’t ask during the ride. They hang up their coats in the sitting room, then Sherlock nods toward the stairs. “Come on,” he says, and John follows him wordlessly up to his old room. Sherlock opens the door with slight trepidation. If this goes wrong, John could turn tail and walk out of the house altogether. Or worse, he could sigh and let on that Sherlock has misunderstood completely and that he appreciates the effort but that it was entirely misguided. 

On the bed, Sherlock has laid out the blanket that John used to spread on the carpet at Mary’s flat or sometimes during visits to Baker Street for Rosie to lie on. He has arranged a few of Rosie’s favourite things: the stuffed rabbit she had from infancy, her favourite book as of the age of her death, _Goodnight Moon_ , the rattle she’d been so fond of hurling across the room as a baby, and a small white t-shirt that Sherlock himself had purchased, with the words _I am my father’s daughter_. Mary had hated that shirt, but Rosie nonetheless got enough wear out of it for there to be a small orange stain (probably strained peaches) on the upper left side. Ridiculous choice of colour for an infant, but Sherlock had been privately tickled by the text and it hadn’t come in any other colour but white, so he bought it anyway. 

He stops, giving John a moment to see what he’s done, carefully not touching him or looking at him. “I know you said to get rid of her things,” he says quietly, the text rehearsed for hours in his head beforehand. “But I also know what today is, and I thought it wouldn’t be right to let her birthday go by unremarked. Un-celebrated. Un-grieved. I kept a few of her things, just in case you might ever want to see them again. There’s a bit more in the box on the floor, there. I just thought – it will be a year in three days, and it wouldn’t be right not to observe the day. I thought perhaps we could combine them and have a small celebration of her life today. And grieve her loss, if you’ll let me share that with you.” Sherlock risks a look at John now and sees that his eyes are full of tears, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “I know she wasn’t my daughter, but I loved her, too,” he says humbly. “I loved her because she was yours. And for her own sake, too. I was so curious to know how she would have grown up. What she would have been like.” 

John’s tears spill over and he makes no effort to wipe them away. “We’ll never know now,” he says, his voice rough. “She was brilliant and beautiful and now we’ll never get to see how she would have turned out. I wanted to see that, too, despite – God, Sherlock, I – ”

He turns toward Sherlock, blinded by his own tears, his arms coming around Sherlock’s back. With relief and a tightness in his own throat, Sherlock folds John into his embrace and holds him tightly as John weeps. He puts his head down on John’s, his eyes wet, too. After a few minutes, John pulls himself together. Sherlock already has a tissue at the ready, so John wipes his eyes and blows his nose, then squares his shoulders, takes Sherlock’s hand, and goes over to the bed. He touches the rattle and the book, then picks up the rabbit and holds it between his chest and chin in an intimate embrace. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and touches the t-shirt, too. 

“Mary hated this,” he says, a huff of laughter coming out. “She took it as a dig. As I’m sure you intended her to.” 

“I won’t deny it,” Sherlock says, with an unapologetic smirk. “She _was_ your daughter. All of that stubbornness.”

John laughs again, though it’s tinged with sadness. “She definitely knew her own mind, that one,” he says. He gets onto the bed and lies down on his side, the way he used to when Rosie was on the blanket, playing. Sherlock goes and lies down on the other side, facing him over the small collection of baby things. “I still feel so terribly guilty sometimes,” John says, his voice hollow, propping his head up on one elbow. His eyes are dark and sombre. “I just… missed so much of her life. And those early days are so important. I’m trying very hard to do what Margaret more or less suggested, that I stop beating myself up about this lost opportunity and live in the moment, take advantage of the relationships I do have, especially ours, but today…” 

“Today I think it’s perfectly understandable,” Sherlock says gently. “I would never condemn anything you did or didn’t do, or tell you that I think that you should feel guilty, but if you do, then possibly you simply need to let yourself feel it. Today, at least. Tomorrow you can work on letting it go again.”

John looks at him in gratitude. “I think I have to, today,” he says. “I was so glad we had a suit fitting to distract me from the date. You never mentioned it and I didn’t know if you’d remembered that it was her birthday today or not.” 

“Of course I remembered,” Sherlock says. “I’ve been planning this for weeks.”

John smiles at him and lets go of the rabbit to reach for his hand, covering it. “Thank you,” he says, his voice unsteady. “And thank you for keeping her things. It _is_ good to see them again. I thought I would never be able to, but now…” 

Sherlock watches him, caring for him so fiercely that it aches. “Then I’m glad I did,” he says, his voice low. 

John touches the book again. “This might sound stupid,” he begins, a bit hesitant, but Sherlock stops him there. 

“Nothing about this is stupid,” he says firmly. “What were you going to say?” 

John’s lips press together a little. “I used to love hearing you read to her,” he says. “I couldn’t even admit it to myself, but I loved hearing your voice, reading a children’s story to my daughter. It meant a lot to me that you would do that, especially after Mary died and all that with Eurus, when I was on my own with Rosie and exhausted, half-asleep on the sofa and you’d take it upon yourself to keep Rosie out of my hair so that I could relax a little. I loved you for that, though I couldn’t admit it to myself. I mean, I already loved you, anyway. You know what I mean. That meant a lot, though. And this is the bit that sounds stupid, I think – I miss hearing you read that story. Isn’t that strange?” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock says. “I like that you liked hearing it.” He pauses for a moment, then asks, “Would you like me to read it to you now?” 

John bites his lip, then nods. “If you don’t think it’s – ”

“I don’t,” Sherlock interrupts gently. He reaches for the book and pulls it closer, turning it to face himself. John turns onto his back, holding Rosie’s rabbit on his chest, eyes gazing up at the ceiling. “ _Goodnight room,_ ” Sherlock begins, then stops, looking over. “Would you like to see the pictures?” he asks. 

John shakes his head. “Your voice is all I want.” 

Sherlock accepts this and goes on, reading through the short, simple story. Mrs Hudson bought it for Rosie, he thinks, citing it as a classic of children’s literature. He finishes with, “ _Goodnight, noises everywhere._ ” and closes the book. 

For a long few moments, John is silent, his steady breathing the only sound in the room. Then he turns onto his side to face Sherlock and deliberately reaches for the rattle, t-shirt, and book, and places them all carefully behind him. Then he shifts over the blanket and puts his arms and legs around Sherlock, fitting his head into the crook of Sherlock’s head and shoulder, and they hold each other for a long time without speaking. After perhaps twenty minutes have gone by, John says, just above a whisper, “I feel like it’s still an open wound. And like you’re the one thing that’s preventing me from bleeding out.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this, but tightens his grip on John. “I love you,” he says tightly. “I’ll always be here to stop the bleeding. To share this with you. Both the memories and the pain.” 

John nods. “I – get that now,” he says, his voice as tight as Sherlock’s. “You’re – I don’t have the words, Sherlock. You’re so much more than I deserve.” 

“Funny,” Sherlock says, putting his lips to John’s hair. “That’s exactly how I feel. We’re so lucky to have this, aren’t we?” 

John nods again, then pulls back just far enough to look Sherlock in the eyes. “So lucky,” he says, his voice intense, then he leans in and puts their mouths together for a long time. 

*** 

Later, they unwind themselves and get off the bed. “Do you want to bring any of this down?” Sherlock asks. 

John looks around, then shakes his head. “Let’s pack it away. Maybe next year we can bring it out again.” 

Sherlock accepts this and carefully replaces everything in the box. Later, he’ll put it back up in the attic. “What about her rabbit?” he asks. “Why don’t you bring that down? You can keep it under your pillow, or in the drawer of your night table. Wherever you like. Just so that it’s there, if you want it.” 

John nods, blinking and smiling. “Yeah. Okay,” he says, and grips Sherlock’s hand in silent gratitude. They go downstairs hand-in-hand. John goes into the bedroom, then the loo. When he hears the door open again, Sherlock calls out, “Are you hungry?” 

John appears in the kitchen doorway and nods. “Yeah, famished, actually.” 

Sherlock smiles. “Good.” He picks up his phone, dials a number, listens for a moment, then says, “Now.” He hangs up. “It’s on its way,” he says. “Five minutes.” 

John looks impressed. “Goodness. What are we having?” 

“Indian,” Sherlock informs him. “Your favourite, so I thought, why not?” 

John’s eyes are beautiful as he smiles across at Sherlock. “Is there anything I can do while we wait?” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock says briskly. “Unless you’d like to open the wine and pour us some. It’s in the fridge. There are two bottles.” 

“Sure.” John goes to the fridge and has a look. He gives a pleased laugh. “I see: a rosé,” he says. 

Sherlock smiles over his shoulder at him. “It’s the same one Kyle sent us after our massage,” he says. “That delicious sparkling one. That’s why I got two bottles. It goes down rather easily and I thought we might want a second. We’ve got nothing on tomorrow; I checked. So let’s have ourselves a little feast and get tipsy.” 

“I think that’s definitely called for,” John agrees, uncorking the wine as Sherlock sets out plates and silverware. The doorbell rings a moment later: perfect timing. 

Sherlock brings up a large bag and sets out containers of butter chicken, lamb rogan josh, aloo ghobi, basmati, and samosas. There is also mango chutney and cilantro chutney and naan. John takes it all in with undisguised pleasure and lets Sherlock spoon helpings of all of it onto his plate. “There’s also dessert,” Sherlock warns. “Not from Taj Mahal. You’ll see after.” 

“Wow,” John says. “You are truly amazing. I hope you know that.” 

Sherlock smiles. “I’m trying,” he says modestly. 

“Succeeding,” John responds firmly, and it warms him. 

They eat the delicious food, washing it down with the sweet, sparkling rosé, and it dims the pain of the grief a little. They take a break before dessert, both of them finding themselves too full, after all, and watch an episode of the drama series they’re watching together. Sherlock specifically read spoilers online to ensure that nothing related to infants or their deaths are in this episode just to be sure. Afterward, John puts on the kettle and Sherlock removes several things from the fridge to unearth the cake he hid there this morning. It’s small, just six inches across, but exquisitely made by the bakery down on Marylebone that they sometimes frequent. It’s a lemon raspberry cake, decorated beautifully in the form of a large rose in pink and yellow icing. “It’s a rose,” Sherlock says unnecessarily, and wondering again if perhaps this was one step too far, but John reaches for his hand across the table and grips it.

“It’s so beautiful,” he says, his voice catching. “You are so thoughtful, Sherlock. It’s almost too pretty to eat.” 

They eat a piece each anyway, which is half the cake, their hands linked across the table, staying that way as they sip Earl Grey after. “She was like a little rosebud, just beginning to unfurl,” Sherlock says, his voice a bit whimsical. “I’m no judge of children, but I thought she was special, too. I would have raised her with you, if you had wanted that. I know it would have made things complicated, with the work, but I would have done anything you needed.” 

John nods. “I know you would have. But in the end, I barely even knew her,” he says, his voice soft and sad. “That’s just something I’ll have to bear for the rest of my life. It’s hard to connect with a newborn, especially if you didn’t particularly want to have one to connect with in the first place. My own attitude about her got in my way. And then I was so filled with my own misery and guilt and anger that I completely dropped the ball, for months. Sometimes I would get her back and hardly be able to believe my eyes because she’d grown again, noticeably, since the last time I had even seen her. That’s what I mean about having been a shit father, Sherlock. I had my good moments, too, I guess, but during those few months, I was a shit human being, full stop. Don’t even try to argue that. I can guess everything you would say, and I’m willing to say that I’m not an entirely shit human now, but I was then. It’s a fact.” 

Sherlock tightens his fingers a little in John’s. “It’s all right,” he says. “We all have our low moments. That wasn’t one of my finer turns, either.” 

John puts the other half of the small cake back into the bakery box and stows it in the fridge. “We finished the wine,” he says, with a touch of regret. “Pity. We could have had the leftovers with lunch tomorrow.” 

Sherlock’s eyes glint. “I bought a third bottle,” he says. “It’s hidden behind the containers on the third shelf.” 

“You genius,” John says admiringly. He comes around the table and puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Come to bed with me. Leave the rest of this; I’ll clean up in the morning, or whenever we get up. Or Mrs Hudson will. I need to feel you in my arms again, touch you everywhere, feel you connected to me. Because we do have this. We didn’t wreck it or miss our chance to have it before it was too late, no matter what happened. This is me being in the moment and loving what I have right in front of me. I love you – I love you fiercely, Sherlock. So come to bed.” 

Sherlock’s response is non-verbal but decidedly affirmative, and they make their way down the corridor to their bedroom, stripping off each other’s clothes with hungry hands, and Sherlock has just enough passing thought to think that it was all right in the end: he did all right with remembering Rosie. If it had gone sideways, the entire wedding might be off at this point. But it isn’t: John actually allowed himself to weep in front of him for only the second time in their entire history. Sherlock thinks of those raw words about bleeding out and feels intensely grateful that John was willing to be that open about it in front of him, letting him inside it, letting him hold him through it. He feels closer to John than ever, and is glad. 

*** 

Sherlock wakes up with a sudden, sharp inhalation, exhaling on a moan. His fingers move, searching, and find John’s head between his legs. He lets his head fall back. “Think this is my favourite way to wake up,” he says, his voice croaky from sleep. “ _Oh_ – John, you’re really quite – ahhh…”

A laugh bubbles up in John’s throat, which Sherlock feels directly in his flesh. “Shh,” John lifts off long enough to admonish. 

Sherlock flings an arm across his forehead. “Why, particularly?” he asks, hips canting upward of their own accord. It feels heavenly, pleasure concentrating itself all in the south centre of his body. 

“Reasons,” John says, and resumes sucking, and Sherlock decides he prefers the sucking to a proper answer and doesn’t pursue this. 

He keeps his moans to the lowest possible volume level, pushing unabashedly into John’s mouth. John holds up two fingers near Sherlock’s face and tells him to suck them. 

Sherlock grabs at John’s fingers and sucks them sensually enough to make John quirk his eyebrows up at him around his mouthful. John doesn’t need to tell him to spread a moment later when his fingers come searching, slipping into him with practised ease. Sherlock’s body is humming with pleasure, vibrating brightly with it, but it could still go deeper and suddenly he decides he wants that, rather than the quick (albeit delicious) route to his peak via John’s talented mouth. “John…” he begins, his voice already punctured with breath, and John hears something there and lifts his head. 

“Yeah?” he asks, then goes back to mouthing the head of Sherlock’s penis obscenely, lips and tongue rubbing it from all sides, and it reduces Sherlock’s ability to make coherent sentence by a factor of approximately ninety-eight percent. 

“I want you in me,” he manages, body contorting under the ministrations of John’s wicked mouth. “ _Now_. Please!” 

John reaches up to put two fingers quickly on his lips. “Okay. Okay. But you have to keep it down, yeah? Even when you come. _Especially_ when you come. And we’ll have to be a bit quick; I was planning on blow jobs, not – ” He’s already moving as he speaks, however, reaching for the lubricant Sherlock has located under the pillow and slicking it over himself, then massaging Sherlock’s entrance with it, slipping his fingers in and out a little more. He doesn’t ask if Sherlock is ready; Sherlock already knows that John knows he is. John crawls up over Sherlock, his arms like steel bars on either side of Sherlock’s jaw, bending to kiss him even as he presses the head of his erection into the heat of Sherlock’s body. He reaches down to guide himself, then pushes all the way inside in one long, steady drive. 

Sherlock hears the breath in his lungs escape in huff of pleasure, and John touches his lips again, with the other hand this time. Sherlock retaliates by catching said fingers with his lips and sucking again, and John makes a soft noise himself and begins to move. He sets a nice, steady pace of thrusting and every stroke is angled just right to procure the beginnings of a steadily growing glow in Sherlock’s body. He moans again, unable to prevent it, and John increases his pace. 

“Sh – Sher – ” He’s too far gone to speak clearly, so Sherlock reaches down and grasps John’s arse cheeks with both hands. John is panting against his open mouth, thighs flexing against Sherlock’s as he pumps himself into the heat of Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock can actively feel John leaking within him and he loves it. Because of John’s mouth and fingers, he’s already harder than rock and leaking himself, feeling it ooze where his penis is lying pressed up against his lower abdomen. “Yes – go – please – !” is all he can gasp out and John obliges, their bodies slapping together now. John’s face is just above his, their eyes locked together. 

“Today is the day,” John pants, shifting his weight to touch Sherlock’s forehead. “This is the day I’m going to marry you!” 

Sherlock’s entire body gives a spasm beyond his control, and suddenly John’s hand is there on his penis, rubbing _hard_ , and the pleasure spikes and he’s coming – coming so hard it makes him lift off the bed, teeth gritted together as he pumps out stream after hot stream of his release. It’s warm and wet on his skin and he doesn’t care. “Yes!” he gasps, clutching John to himself, digging his toes into John’s arse. “Do it – go!” 

John makes a sound almost like a snarl and his hips seem to go wild. He comes with all ten of Sherlock’s fingers digging into the meat of his arse, making a noise loud enough to startle Sherlock into clapping a hand over his mouth. John is still thrusting, even as come slips out of Sherlock’s body and up the crease of his arse. Finally John collapses, his back heaving, and Sherlock strokes over it with reverent, lazy, sated hands. 

“Happy wedding day,” he says, kissing the top of John’s head and tightening his arms into a proper embrace.” 

John responds by kissing him breathlessly, and it turns into laughter at the end, for no reason other than their joy at the thought of their marriage later today. After a little, John rolls off him and reaches for a flannel, cleaning them both off. “I hope we weren’t too loud,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly bothered. 

“Too loud for what?” Sherlock asks, determined to get a proper answer at last. 

In response, John holds up a hand as footsteps approach the door. There’s a knock and he points. “That,” he says. “Come in!” 

“Are you both decent in there?” Mrs Hudson wants to know. 

Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position, John scrambling to do the same, and arranges the blankets over their laps. They’re naked, but she won’t mind their bare chests. “Decent enough,” he calls back. 

Mrs Hudson manages the doorknob and shoulders her way into the room, bearing a large, silver serving tray. “Breakfast in bed, just this once,” she says. “After all, it’s your wedding day!” 

They make room between them and thank her, and she escapes hastily. Sherlock thinks that the room must smell of sex and sweaty bodies and that she knows exactly what she just missed. 

“I was going to make you breakfast myself, only I knew you’d hear me get up and spoil the surprise, and besides, I didn’t want you to feel like I was taking things out of your hands, not letting you reciprocate,” John explains. “So I asked Mrs Hudson if she would make us something nice.” 

“Thoughtful,” Sherlock says, leaning over to kiss him. “This looks delicious.” It does: Mrs Hudson has made them waffles and crepes, the latter served rolled up with chocolate spread and strawberries inside, and there’s a dish of cut strawberries and a bowl of whipped cream for the waffles. There’s also a pot of tea and two cups, so John pours and sets the teapot itself on the night table for stability’s sake. 

“We have a big day ahead of us,” he says, sounding satisfied. “And I’m looking forward to every single part of it. Even the photographs.” 

Sherlock smiles. He knows very well that John was bored by all of the preparations for his wedding to Mary, and grew increasingly irritable as the day itself approached, suggesting that he was dreading it. He can still remember the day John was trying painfully to convince both of them that nothing would change with his marriage, but the words were hollow and Sherlock hadn’t been able to bear to listen to them. This time, it’s completely different. “I know,” he says. “I feel the same way. Today is going to be a very good day.” 

John holds up a crepe to feed him, and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he chews the bite he takes. “It already is,” he says, and Sherlock finds his hand and winds their fingers tightly together. 

*** 

Not a thing goes wrong, which should be a miracle in and of itself, but it simply feels right. Everything is easy. They dispense with the superstition about not seeing each other before the ceremony, as they’ve already seen each other in their suits, and do the photo session before the festivities begin. That alone makes everything else easier. The ceremony is thirty-five minutes long, exactly as planned. Most of it fades immediately into a pleasant blur, except for the all-important moment wherein Sherlock speaks the words of the vows they wrote together and listens to John recite them after him, and when Todd prompts with the appointed question, Sherlock looks deeply into John’s eyes and says, his voice unwavering and steady, “I do.” Hearing John say it in turn makes every pore of his skin prickle and Sherlock bends to kiss him in a long, closed-lip kiss that is nonetheless one of their most passionate to date and dimly he registers that their assembled guests are cheering and applauding in the background. He drinks in John’s radiant eyes for a wonderfully intense moment after, then they both start to smile, unstoppably, and turn and wave at everyone. Sherlock takes in both his mother and father wiping their eyes, as well as Mrs Hudson. And a number of other people, including most of their friends. A deeper happiness than he has ever felt before wells in his chest and he grips John’s hand so hard it might be painful, but John is squeezing back just as hard, and when Sherlock looks at him again, he sees that John’s eyes are wet, too. The string quartet starts to play and that’s their cue. Hand-in-hand, they walk up the centre aisle and out of the room, where John immediately pulls him into his arms to kiss him again. 

The party begins half an hour later, with cocktails to bridge the two events. They booked the same venue for both, but different rooms. Their guests drift about and sign their book and leave gifts on the appointed table, or come over to congratulate them. Sherlock was half-dreading the décor, but in fact it’s beautiful. The tables are ornamented with pine boughs, rowan berries, pinecones, tasteful amounts of artificial snow, and candles, and there are fairy lights everywhere. Everything is low-key and enjoyable, no fuss or bother. They walk into the reception room with their arms around each other to find cocktail hour going strong, and make their way to the bar to get a drink. John orders them champagne, which will be served throughout dinner, anyway. 

“What better drink, though?” he asks, and Sherlock agrees, clinking his glass to John’s. 

“Ready for your speech?” he asks. 

John pats his upper right jacket pocket. “I hope so. It won’t be half as long as yours was last time.” 

“Let’s not speak of that day today,” Sherlock says, and John laughs. “Nor is mine, for the record. It’s much shorter.” 

John pulls him down for a kiss, a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, smiling. “I can’t wait to hear it,” he murmurs, just before their lips touch. 

“Oi, save it for later!” Justin hoots, coming over with Thom, and they find themselves engulfed in a four-way hug. 

“Figures you two would be the first to get married of us all, despite having been the last to actually become a couple,” Thom sniffs. “I’d be offended that you beat us to it, but I just can’t find a single shred of nastiness in my heart. I did try. You two are just so perfect and so disgustingly happy that I can’t make myself feel anything but happy for you.” 

They laugh at this. Scott and Jeremy come over and join them just as Justin tugs Thom off toward the bar. They congratulate Sherlock and John, then Scott says, “I’m glad we caught you on your own. We have a bit of news of our own, actually, and we wanted to tell you first.” 

Sherlock deduces it instantly and opens his mouth, but John elbows him and he shuts it again, waiting expectantly instead. 

“We just got engaged!” Jeremy says, beaming and holding up his hand to show off a ring. 

“Congratulations!” Their voices overlap each other’s. “Who asked who?” John wants to know. 

Jeremy nods at Scott. “He asked. And Todd finally got my head out of my arse long enough to not object, so – here we are!” 

Sherlock meets John’s eyes for a short but intense moment, then he says, firmly, “That’s great I’m so glad you’ve been talking to Todd. He’s wonderful.” 

“He did a fantastic job of your ceremony,” Scott says. “We want him to do ours, too! I loved what he said in the little talk he gave, there. He’s a very wise person.” 

Jeremy nudges him. “Speaking of wise people, there’s Margaret. Let’s go tell her!” 

“Go on,” John encourages. “Go and tell everyone!” 

They go, promising to catch up later or on the dance floor, and Sherlock looks at John. “You’re tearing up again,” he says, but says it affectionately. 

John touches his eyes. “I’m so glad they recovered so well. And got engaged at our wedding!” 

“You utter sap,” Sherlock crows. “I always knew you were a romantic!” He undermines the crowing by pulling John back into his arms and smiling into his face, their foreheads touching. 

“You love it,” John counters, his eyes glowing. “And don’t spill my champagne!” 

Kyle steps up to the podium as they kiss again and gets everyone’s attention, suggesting they find their seats and that perhaps the grooms could make their way to the head table at their leisure, and that dinner would be underway in a few minutes, so they make their way without haste through the crowd to the head table on its slight platform. They had two attendants, just Mycroft and Lestrade, but invited Todd and Kyle to sit at the head table as officiate and MC respectively, as well. They sit down at the two-person padded bench in the centre of the table, which has been draped in white fur. 

Sherlock picks up a sprig of rowan berries. “The berries are nice, but the fur is a bit much,” he says mildly. 

“I like the fur,” John says, as though daring him to insult it, so Sherlock smirks and backs down. 

“We should have gone full fig, then – served goose or wild boar and figgy pudding and mulled wine,” Sherlock digs, and John snorts out laughter through his nose. 

Mycroft leans over. “I suppose it would be too much to ask the two of you to behave like adults at your own wedding,” he says pointedly. 

“It would, yes,” John retorts, leaning over Sherlock to say it, and Mycroft sighs and subsides, then turns to Lestrade, presumably to vent his complaints to him. 

They instructed Kyle that they didn’t want any sort of ‘programme’, no slide shows or stupid kissing games or quizzes or open mic time. They asked both Mycroft and Lestrade whether one of them would like to give a speech. Mycroft declined, as expected, but Lestrade cheerfully said he’d have a go, and Kyle gave him a five-minute maximum. Kyle begins by welcoming everyone and introducing himself and the rest of the head table. He explains how the evening will proceed and that dinner will be served shortly. He sits down, and with that, the wait staff begin to serve. The prime rib is delicious, cooked perfectly and served with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables, as they chose. 

“This chef is very good,” Mycroft admits, examining a stem of asparagus on his fork. 

Sherlock nods. “He’s almost as good as Kirk at Ravine Valley. Possibly just as good.” 

“That’s a bold statement,” John comments from his right, and Sherlock laughs. 

Their plates are taken away and they’re served vanilla bean ricotta cheesecake, decorated with frosted red berries and holly leaves. The servers offer coffee, but they wave them away, not finished drinking champagne just yet. They finish their dessert and go down to join Sherlock’s parents. His mother asks about the honeymoon and Sherlock answers, his eyes on John and his father chatting. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” his mother wants to know. 

Sherlock tells her about the hotel they found just outside the city, the honeymoon suite with the jacuzzi. “We’ll stay the night, eat brunch, which is supposed to be quite something there, and fly to Bora Bora in the evening. Mycroft is sending cars to take us there and pick us up for the airport.” 

“Ah.” His mother sounds satisfied. “Good for him.” She looks over at John, then says, very seriously, “Well, he made you wait a little, but you got him in the end. Bravo, Sherlock. He’s a keeper, that one.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock says firmly. “And I made him wait, too. Two years on the road and all that, remember?” 

His mother opens her mouth to protest, possibly say something about Mary, then changes her mind and reaches over to pat his hand. “So you did,” she acknowledges. “Well, you’re perfect together, and that’s a fact. I’m so glad for you, darling. Just so very glad. And so is Dad.” 

Sherlock smiles. He should respond, but Kyle appears over his shoulder and says that they should get their speeches done and let people get dancing. He agrees, catches John’s eye, and they go back up to the head table. 

“Bloody hell, I’m nervous,” John says, as they rearrange themselves on the fur-lined bench. 

“Do you want me to go first?” Sherlock asks, but John shakes his head. 

“No. It’s all right. We organised it this way; let’s not switch.” John takes out his folded-up speech and spreads it out, his fingers not trembling at all, despite his nerves. “No peeking. My one consolation is that Todd and Margaret should be endlessly proud of all this putting-my-feelings-into-words business.” 

Sherlock smiles at him. “Just say it to me,” he says. 

“I will, but there are parts I have to say about you first,” John returns, then subsides as Kyle steps back up to the microphone. 

He gets everyone’s attention again, then says, “Now: Sherlock and John have been very clear about the fact that they don’t want too much talking. If I may quote our famous detective, ‘speeches are boring, Kyle. No one wants to listen to half the wedding party bungle some half-arsed, badly-written, probably-insulting nonsense’.” He stops and grins as everyone laughs. 

Sherlock forgot he said that. John is laughing, too, and squeezes his hand. 

“Though,” Kyle continues, “I hear that the last time _he_ made a speech, it was quite a bit longer than the usual, and possibly more insulting, too.” More laughter. He goes on. “However, before our grooms make their own speeches, I’m going to call upon New Scotland Yard’s illustrious Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade to make a little speech of his own. Greg, you’re up!” 

Lestrade gets to his feet and goes over to the podium. He clears his throat and shuffles his cue cards, then speaks without looking at them once. “Good evening, everyone. As Kyle said, I’m DI Lestrade with the New Scotland Yard. I’ve known Sherlock for thirteen years now, but for the first five years, I wouldn’t have said that I knew him well at all. I won’t go into how we met, but he very quickly proved himself indispensible. I came to admire his intellect first, but it took years before I got an idea of the man behind the mind. What changed that is the man sitting to his right. John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, veteran of three tours in Afghanistan. You wouldn’t guess it because he’s so good at keeping it under wraps, but sitting there is one of the finest men I’ve ever known. Solid as a rock, the very best to have at your side in a spot of trouble, and funny, too. Exactly eight years ago tomorrow, Sherlock turned up at a crime scene with John in tow. I had no idea they’d only just met the day before. I asked Sherlock who John was, seeing as I was breaking the rules already by letting him into a sealed crime scene, and all he would say was ‘He’s with me’. And that, ladies and gentlemen, about summarises it: from that moment on, John was with Sherlock. We didn’t know how, exactly – though believe me, the gossip was thick enough! There was always a lot of speculation. None of that ever really mattered to me. What mattered was that Sherlock had always been alone, and the day John Watson walked into his life, that stopped: from that day forward, it was always the two of them. They became a unit as seamlessly as if they’d known each other all their lives. I’ve seen them bickering and I’ve seen them laughing at the least appropriate possible times, and while they may appear rather different on the surface, there’s always been something there that’s bound them together from the very first. I’m no expert on relationships, and I’ll admit that I was as surprised as anyone when John married Mary. I didn’t ask too many questions and there’s a lot one could say about that. I won’t get into it now, but I was relieved, I have to say, when all the dust from that settled and John moved into 221B Baker Street again. Because what I have known from the beginning is this: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong together. And I’m so glad for you both that you’ve got it now. Congratulations, mates.” People applaud as Lestrade looks at them both and grins. He raises his glass. “To the grooms, everyone: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!” 

The assembled guests repeat their names and everyone drinks. Despite what Kyle said about no kissing games in the announcements, everyone begins tapping on their glasses with their forks, so John leans over and kisses Sherlock deeply, with tongue, which earns them cheers and catcalls (namely from Andrew, Avi, Justin, and Thom’s corner). Kyle comes back to the podium as Lestrade sits down. 

“Thanks, Greg, that was a great speech!” he says. “Not boring at all!” People laugh again. Kyle smiles over at them. “Now it’s time for the grooms to make their own speeches,” he says. “We’re going to start with John, I believe?” 

John nods, and Kyle brings over a wireless microphone, showing him how to switch it on. John does it and stands up. “Thanks, Kyle,” he starts. “And thanks, Greg. That was really nice.” He picks up his speech. “I don’t want to talk for too long, but there are a few things I need to say tonight,” he says, and the room goes very quiet at his serious tone. John hesitates, then continues. “On this day eight years ago, I went to meet a man I thought might become my flatmate. I had no way of knowing then that he would immediately become the most important person in my life. Within five minutes, he impressed and startled me with his incredible powers of deduction. Within twenty-four hours, he had cured me of the limp I came back from Afghanistan with and made me feel alive again. He turned my life around and upside down and he frankly hasn’t stopped doing that since that day.” John pauses, and looks down at his papers for the first time. “When Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart’s Hospital in front of me, we were on the phone together. That day ripped a hole in my life so huge that I never thought I would climb out of it again. What I didn’t know at the time was that Sherlock had been blackmailed into doing it, nor that he was saving my life at the same time. The papers were dragging his name through the mud at the time and maybe none of you know what really happened that day, but that’s it: he was saving my life. I had no way of knowing and he couldn’t tell me that he was still alive. That’s why I married Mary. I’ll just say that here and now so that everyone knows. It was a mistake that almost destroyed both our lives in several different ways, and up until this past July, we were both still left with so many questions and unresolved issues. Thanks to Greg, we went to Todd and Kyle’s fantastic resort for same-sex couples therapy, Ravine Valley. We went undercover to solve a crime, but thanks to Todd and Margaret – where are you, Margaret? There she is, hi! – we ended up benefitting hugely from their help and finally realised what we maybe should have known from day one.” 

John stops to clear his throat, and Sherlock, recognising that he’s getting emotional, reaches up and puts a hand on his back. John clears his throat again and stops to smile down at him. “Go on,” Sherlock says softly. 

John swallows and nods. “Sherlock has always had the habit of believing me to be a far better man than I am. The day we met, this day eight years ago, he called me a war hero. When I married Mary, he told the wedding guests that I was the best and bravest and wisest person he’d ever known, and I’ve demonstrably _not_ been that, especially to him. So this time I’m going to say it.” He looks down at Sherlock and says, “Sherlock: over the years, I’ve underestimated you time and time again. I’ve misread your motives and assumed the worst of you. I’ve blamed you for things that weren’t your fault and completely missed the fact that you’ve been saving me over and over again from the very first. And in spite of all that, you’ve done everything in your power to give me what I want and what I need, and never stopped loving me. You _are_ the very best person I’ve ever known. You’re my partner in absolutely everything, and I’m so, so very glad that you’ve married me.” He raises his glass. “To my husband, Sherlock Holmes.” 

His voice trembles violently on the last few words, but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock gets up and hugs John fiercely, the mic and speech both getting dropped on the table. Sherlock holds John and grips at his hair, then pulls away just far enough to kiss him again. Everyone is on their feet and clapping, and several people are visibly in tears. Eventually John sits down and Sherlock retrieves the microphone. 

“Why don’t you all sit down?” he suggests, feeling a bit awkward, but they listen to him and take their seats again. “Well,” he says. “That’s a tough act to follow!” People laugh lightly at this. “We didn’t tell each other what we were going to say in our own speeches,” Sherlock says, taking his own out of his pocket. “Only a few of you were present the last time John got married, but I promise you that this speech will be shorter than that one was.” That gets another laugh, including from John. Sherlock clears his throat. “John’s given you some of our history already, so I won’t repeat that. What many of you probably don’t know is that John asked me out the day after we met, during our first ever dinner together. He denied it at the time and may still – do you deny that, John?” he asks, looking down at John, who laughs, gives a gesture of defeat, and shakes his head. “Good,” Sherlock says, smirking at him. He clears his throat and goes on, more seriously. “Many of you know that relationships are not my strong suit, to put it lightly. At the time I honestly didn’t even know how to respond to John. It’s not that I had never been flirted with before, but I similarly had no way of knowing at the time that I had just met the singular most important person of my life, either. I’ll admit that it took me some time to work out my own feelings regarding John, and by the time I did, so much had already happened, much of it bad, and much of it my own fault, whatever John has told you. Regardless – because I did promise to keep it short – by the time we were sent to Ravine Valley, we had managed to become friends again after a very difficult period wherein we weren’t, but I was conscious that there were wounds that I devoutly hoped would not be prodded at as we posed as a couple in our group therapy and private counselling sessions. I was wrong to hope that, because it was only there that we were finally able to discover the truth behind the actions that had hurt each other the most badly and also the truth that we had loved one another all along. Because for me, there was never anyone else. It was always John Watson. No one else ever came close to comparing.” 

Sherlock stops to clear his throat, and puts down his speech. “What matters to me most, and what I really wanted to say tonight is this: for every crime I have helped solve, for every terrorist I have helped end, for all of the clever deductions I’ve made, the accomplishment I am most proud of is having won the love of this extraordinary man. I endeavour to spend the rest of my days trying to make myself worthy of it. John: I cannot believe you actually married me. But I’m so incredibly glad that you did.” He lifts his champagne flute. “To my husband, John Watson.” 

He switches the microphone off and sits down on the bench and John engulfs him again. Through the applause, people start clinking their glasses again, so Sherlock kisses John for a long time, causing more cheers to erupt, and when he breaks it off, John pulls him back in for another long moment. The laughing and cheering increases still more, and Kyle steps up to the podium when John finally releases him. He directs the guests’ attention to the sideboard of desserts and champagne that the staff have set out, and says that he’ll call on the grooms to come out for their first dance in about five minutes’ time. 

As Kyle speaks, John grips Sherlock’s hands and they tune him out. “God, Sherlock,” John says, his voice low. “Thank you for that. I have never loved you so much as I do right now. And – I can’t believe I ever doubted that for even a second.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes and puts his forehead against John’s, feeling swamped with emotion. “I love you,” he says. It’s the first thing that comes out. “And I meant that. Thank you for this. Thank you for marrying me. And for saying all that, too.” 

“It wasn’t enough by half,” John insists, but then they get interrupted by well-meaning people surrounding them. 

Their Ravine Valley group is there, and Harry and her girlfriend, and everyone tells them what wonderful speeches they made. Kyle frees them a bit later, directing them to the dance floor. John pulls Sherlock into his arms, the way they practised at home, the way they practised three and a half years ago in preparation for John’s marriage to Mary, but this time it’s different: all eyes are on them as they dance, faces admiring and shining with emotion. Sherlock thinks of that other dance, the solo violin too thin to hide the silences between the notes, the heavy stepping of John’s dance with Mary, the tension in his fingers and the flames obscuring his vision. This time it’s he who is in John’s arms. There is no lopsided, unreturned vow: they made new vows today, the same vow that they wrote together. There is no Mary. There is no tension. There is only this: only them, and this is how it is going to be for the rest of their lives. John said that nothing is set in stone, that even stone crumbles eventually, but he was wrong. Sherlock makes a note to tell him this, later when they’ve arrived at the hotel and are sitting in the hot tub in the privacy of their honeymoon suite. Sherlock feels the truth of this as surely as though it is proven fact. John was wrong: 

This is going to last forever. 

*


End file.
